


The Alphas of Animus

by Ludwiggle73



Series: The Eurasia Duology [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha wolves, Alpha/Omega, Gay Sex, Gender Issues, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Birds, Politics, Religion, Sexism, Sexual Slavery, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: On the day Matthew Bonnefoy is named King of Western Eurasia, a message of utmost importance arrives from the East. Matthew and his half-brother, Prince Alfred, travel to a foreign empire in the hopes of making peace. Unfortunately for them, things do not go according to plan. To get back home, they must help and be helped by unlikely allies: a new rebel hiding in plain sight, and an old radical hiding from himself.[Ameripan. PruCan. Frain. GerIta.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do you kind folks still want a TPS sequel? Guess we'll find out :P
> 
> You don't need to read 'The Promega Sonata' before this, but it will help you understand the universe and the history between the characters. The choice is yours, my friends!
> 
> Enjoy! :D

“With each passing year, we learn more

about the mental and physical similarities

of Alphas and Omegas. What once seemed

stark opposites now reveal themselves

to be like neighboring seas: ebbing into

each other, inseparable, with infinite identities

flowing between the extremes.”

_—thesis of Emil Bondevik_

 

In the soft yet bright time between morning and noon, the forest was lively. Chipmunks cleared out their nests of seed husks and fur. Young bachelor rabbits, dispersed from the moor warrens, bickered over patches of clover. A doe observed her pair of fawns, brand-new sons spotted with white, prancing about on their gangling legs. The delight of youth in spring was interrupted by an alarming scent carried by the warm breeze. The doe lifted her head high, scanning the undergrowth.

A fern tumbled, then lay flat as a lithe, light brown wolf crept over it. Though he moved slowly, his posture was not that of a hunter: his tongue lolled, ears perked, body loose and relaxed. The fawns sniffed toward him, wagging oversized ears. The wolf wagged his own, amber eyes sparkling. The doe touched her nose to her nearest child’s flank and led them away, casting glances back at the wolf at intervals. He sat there on his haunches, affably watching their retreat. Spring was a plentiful time; predator and prey need not always fear each other. If only that was always the case, he thought, wistful.

Poorly silenced pawsteps had him on alert. He swiveled one ear, then turned his head. Any defensive stiffness that had entered his posture immediately fell away, and he shifted to his human form with a smooth ripple. Well-groomed fur became the finely made clothing of a young man with considerable status, but the amused amber eyes remained the same. “One day you’ll sneak up on me, Your Highness.”

An irritated bark; then another boy, the same age as the other, stepped from a thicket. “I keep telling you. Alfred, Al, I don’t care what you call me. Just no Highnesses or Excellencies.”

Romeo smiled. It was a smile so lovely that the aforementioned boxing rabbits settled their differences and grazed together as peaceable brethren. “Sorry. One day you’ll sneak up on me, Alfred.”

Alfred flopped down beside his friend, lying on his back in the grass and closing his eyes against the sunlight. “I thought I’d be able to get you, since you were distracted. I wish your dad would train me properly. All I need is some hands-on help.”

Romeo’s smile wilted at the mention of Ludwig. “King Francis forbade him from training you. It isn’t really his fault.”

“Oh, I know.” He heaved a sigh. “It’s all so stupid. I keep telling you, let’s switch fathers. Yours gets the guard he wants, mine gets the pretty Alpha he wants.”

“Beta,” murmured Romeo.

Alfred’s eyes flashed open. “Sorry. Beta.” His sky-blue gaze softened as he reached to take Romeo’s delicate hand in his larger one. “Your dad’ll get used to it eventually. Emil always says it’s hard to change society’s mind.”

Romeo nodded, giving the prince’s hand a grateful squeeze before letting go, pushing to his feet, brushing grass off his trousers. “I guess we’d better get home. They’ll want you to get dressed soon.”

Alfred groaned as he stood up. The other Alpha was a few inches taller than him, but thinner; he’d inherited Ludwig’s jawline, but it looked elegant on him, a lovely brushstroke in a masterful work of art. So what if he identified as a Beta? Alfred would date him in a heartbeat, if he was attracted to Alphas. ( _Alpha bodies,_ he mentally corrected himself. Emil and Lovino had led the way in the movement of politically precise language. It was popular in the capital. In surrounding rural towns and villages . . . not so much.) Alfred slung an arm around Romeo’s shoulders. “Listen, best friend, can you do me a favor?”

Romeo laughed. (Nearby flowers bloomed just a little bit prettier.) “Sure, only friend, what can I do for you?”

Alfred nudged his side. “Hey. Mattie’s your friend.” Even just his brother’s name made a rather unpleasant mix of pride and dread swirl through him. “Can you get all dolled up and stand in front of a thousand people so I don’t have to?”

Romeo nudged him back. “Sorry, I have to decline. A prince has to do what a prince has to do. Mamma would love to be there to see it. He says a crowning is something very special. _They don’t just happen every day, you know, you should feel honored to see it!_ ”

Alfred knew the squeaky impression of Feliciano was to lessen the guilt Alfred felt, but he still felt it. Poor Feli was bedridden seven months into his third attempt at pregnancy since Romeo was born. He’d told everyone he wanted a brood of pups and nestlings, but it hadn’t turned out that way. Poor Feli. Poor Romeo. They had those problems, heartbreaking struggles, and Alfred was complaining about dressing nice and facing his people? _What’s wrong with me?_

The familiar restless feeling took over. Every breath he took crackled with self-loathing. He backed away from Romeo. “Hey, listen, you go on without me. I’ll catch up.”

Romeo recognized the look in his eyes, and his concern was plain. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Alfred nodded, already starting away. “Yeah, just nerves. There’s just something I gotta do before the ceremony. It’s important to me.”

The Beta might’ve had theories, but he didn’t offer them, nor did he pry. He simply replied, “I’ll tell them you’re on your way,” and shifted, bounding away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Alfred fell to all fours and dove through the undergrowth. He had no trouble carving a path through the forest; despite his lack of combat training, he was nimble from hunting and strong from endless exercises in his private chambers. And when this itch to go somewhere else, do something else, _be someone else_ came over him—there was only one direction he could run.

In ever-changing times, the birch grove was a remembered moment, golden and frozen. It looked the same now as it had every year of Alfred’s life, though the silver-barked trees had once seemed a bit taller. As a child, he came here with Francis and Matthew; he so regretted his lack of understanding back then, even though childhood ignorance was a natural part of life. He wished he could do it over, come back again with his father and brother, and truly grieve with them.

But it was too late, now. Francis never mentioned Arthur anymore. Matthew didn’t, either. Nor did Antonio, Ludwig, Feliciano—everyone in the capital avoided speaking his name, as if afraid to befoul the memory of him by humanizing it. Founder of Promega Day. Bringer of Peace. The first (posthumous) Queen of Western Eurasia. Everyone thought of him as this unflawed hero, a deity watching over the equality he’d created. Alfred wished they could just remember him as what he was: a person.

He stood a few feet from the grave marker, a stone carved with regal designs and the words _ARTHUR BONNEFOY. Beloved mate, cherished mother, remembered forever._ Francis had originally wanted something grandiose, but Lovino and—surprisingly—Antonio convinced him that Arthur would not have wanted a monument. Just this, this was enough. Lovino was willing to talk about Arthur, but not in great detail; Alfred didn’t ask anymore, having been yelled at too many times to _Stop bothering me about the past! Live your life! Worry about your future, that’s what your mother did!_ Emil would have spoken at length about Arthur, but unfortunately _I didn’t know him well. I wish I had, though. It’s a shame._

Still in wolf form, Alfred dropped to a submission crouch. Tail tucked, ears flat, belly fur brushing blades of grass, he crawled forward until his muzzle touched the stone. He let his nose rest against the cool surface for a few moments, closing his eyes. If he cleared his mind completely, thought of nothing but the warmth of his arms, the soft breast, the sweet scent of milk . . . he could almost picture green eyes, always above, looking down on him with love. _Mum._ A soft whine whistled from the golden wolf’s throat. _I miss you. Please. Tell me what to do._

The breeze whispered through the leaves, but Alfred couldn’t hear what it said.

 

. . .

 

“I cannot believe this,” Francis said, pacing with kingly outrage. “Late! To his brother’s crowning!”

“He isn’t late yet,” Antonio pointed out gently. “We haven’t started—”

“Because he is late!” The king turned abruptly, his deep purple cape swirling round his feet. It looked like anger burning in those blue eyes—because it was—but Antonio knew the root of it was anxiety. The royal adviser laid a soft hand on Francis’s shoulder. “He will be here. It will go perfectly. Everything has been rehearsed. It will be fine.”

Francis stilled, his nervous energy momentarily drowned out by the captivating rasp of the Spaniard’s voice. A fine wine, was Antonio’s voice: it had only gotten better—that is, huskier and sexier—with age. In their mid-forties, the pair had left their prime behind; Francis had worry lines on his forehead and his hair did not sparkle as much as it once had, and Antonio was sporting faint silver streaks at his temples—not to mention the wrinkles around his scarred eye. However, it was no longer reddened and gruesome, nor did he try to hide it anymore. As Francis took in the details of his face, Antonio stood unflinching, his remaining eye bright with compassion.

Antonio had never stopped loving Francis. Only now, nearly two decades after his heart was truly broken, could Francis love him back.

The king touched Antonio’s hip, light fingertips finding through trousers the bruises they had left behind last night. Antonio’s lips curled upward at the corners. “You know,” he murmured, leaning closer, “they say squeezing things helps with stress.”

“Ah oui? Do they say that?” Francis’s hands slid round to the small of Antonio’s back, lower. It didn’t matter how old they got. The Spanish Alpha would always have the best ass in Western Eurasia.

“Oh, great, they’re all over each other. As usual.” These words came with the clatter of a door opening and closing along with two sets of footsteps on wood floor. Lovino strode across the grand hall with Matthew in tow. “Alfred still isn’t here?”

Antonio moved out of Francis’s grasp. “Romeo said he was on his way.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “He should have dragged Alfred home with him. He’s such a pushover. Like you.”

Antonio inclined his head slightly to Lovino, nothing but respect on his face—aside from a bit of fondness for the boy he considered a sort of nephew. “He is a bit like me, I suppose. But kinder.”

Lovino arched an eyebrow slightly. The look in his eyes was just short of his own respect. Over the years, his fire had cooled to coals, and those had crumbled to ash. It was still there, smudging their skin when they brushed past each other. But Lovino had, more or less, forgiven. One couldn’t live in the past. Nothing would get done, and—as a lawyer who represented Omegas whose rights had been infringed—Lovino valued the ability to get things done.

Francis crossed to Matthew, smoothing back his curls and smiling. “How are you feeling, mon beau prince?”

The Omega smiled, but his eyes held a bit of sadness in them. He’d had that slight melancholy, that vague shadow of sorrow, since he turned five. The burdens of an heir weighing him down, perhaps. Alfred certainly felt no such weight. He couldn’t even be bothered to be here and dressed on time!

“I’m okay, Papa,” replied Matthew in that small voice of his. “Just a little nervous. I hope everyone will be able to hear me.”

Francis nodded, gaze drifting. “I hope so, too.” He snapped out of his tangled web of nerves and pressed a kiss to Matthew’s forehead. “They already love you. This is their celebration of you.”

Matthew’s cheeks turned pink. “I wish they could celebrate someone else . . .”

Lovino stole a grape from a tray of fruit a servant had set out earlier. “Don’t be so modest all the time. You’re the new king, fifteen minutes from now. Preen a little.” He ate another grape. “Your Majesty.”

“That’s actually good advice.” Francis arched an eyebrow at Lovino, with only a faint trace of humor in his gaze. “For once.”

Lovino didn’t bother trying to look him in the eye. He just turned away to eat more grapes.

To cover the awkward silence, Matthew asked, “Where is Emil?”

Before anyone could answer, the huge oak doors opened, admitting a veritable herd of blond men. Emil lead the way, looking far grumpier than he actually felt. Berwald and Tino followed, a toddler babbling in the Omega’s arms. Next came Lukas, fondly rolling his eyes at the last in the line: Mathias, one arm around Alfred’s neck, free hand scuffing the prince’s hair. In his booming voice, he cried, “Look what we found!”

Alfred’s laughter died when Francis swooped in. “Upstairs! Dressed! Vite, vite!”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Alfred, head ducked, before he scurried up the staircase.

Francis glared at Mathias. “And you! Why did you think now was a good time to muss his hair?”

Mathias ran a hand through his own hair; all of it sprung right back up, jagged as if frozen into spikes by Scandinavia’s icy winds. “Oh, relax. You’ve become an old man, Bonnefoy. And I thought _I_ was bad. Just turned fifty-four, can you believe it?”

“I’ll believe it,” said Lukas, stepping up beside him, “when I see it. You still act like a pup.”

Mathias pouted. It was rather difficult to see, with the facial hair he was sporting. Whether he acted like it or not, he was a venerated Northern warrior. If he wanted to, he could have brought everyone in attendance to their knees. But, “Where’s the fun in being serious? I’d rather act like this than like Francis. Old worrywart.”

Lovino snorted. “Always good having you around, Mathias.”

Francis turned to Emil, jaw a bit tense. “I think you should show them to their seats now.” He smiled politely at Lukas. “There will be time for discussions later.”

Lukas inclined his head, and Mathias grinned. “Oh, good! I hope there’ll be drinks to go along with the discussion!” He carried on talking about some mead-related nonsense all the way out of the castle, but Francis tuned it out, exasperated. _The Mouth of Scandinavia._

“It’s almost time.” Francis embraced Matthew. “Are you ready?”

Matthew nodded, exhaling slowly. “I think so.”

The king kissed the prince’s cheeks, then stepped out with Antonio—who gave Matthew a reassuring smile—following close behind.

“Hey—thank God you’re still in here.” Alfred ran down the stairs, still buttoning his frock coat. He looked quite dashing in it, even with the scattered look on his face. Matthew tried to smooth the stick-up curl on his brother’s head, but the little strand stood stubborn as ever. “Thanks. I just wanted to tell you good luck.”

Matthew smiled faintly, straightening Alfred’s lapels. “Thank you. Where were you?”

Alfred glanced away. “Oh, just. In the woods.”

Matthew nodded, as if that was a perfectly satisfactory response.

Alfred’s gaze lifted to his brother again. “Hey. You’ll do great.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course. You’ll do better than I would. Just picture the attractive ones naked, that might help.”

And with that solid advice, there was no more time for discussion. The great doors opened, and the two princes walked out into the sunlight together.

 

. . .

 

“Thank you all for coming here today. It is such an honor to see you all here, supporting me . . .”

Alfred didn’t know why Matthew always claimed to be nervous about public speaking, because his brother always spoke clearly, paced his speeches properly, and barely got shaky hands. The first and last time Alfred gave a public address, he got so weak in the knees he had to cling to the podium—not to mention he forgot half of what he was meant to say. It was ridiculous. Even though he knew his father wouldn’t like it, he had made it very clear that he would not be speaking during this ceremony. _I’m not the perfect royal like Mattie,_ he thought, standing off to the side and watching his brother smile angelically. _Sorry, Dad._

“. . . I hope to be just as courteous and noble a king as my father before me, and his father before him, and so on . . .”

Alfred’s gaze drifted over the amassed citizens. Below, everyone was looking upward, enraptured with matthew. In the front row, the Court of Jarls all listened with smiles, even Berwald. They’d put a platform into the town square, complete with red carpeting and strung banners. Francis and Matthew stood in the middle, Alfred stood off to the right, and Antonio stood off to the left. When Alfred looked over at him, the adviser smiled, reminding Alfred to do that as well. Alfred curled his lips, before Francis could notice his error. His father wasn’t really _that_ bad; the problem was with Alfred himself, really. This life of dressing gorgeously, dining finely, always saying the right thing, smiling and waving—that came naturally to Francis and Matthew, but not to Alfred. If he could wrestle with the guards, not worry about being too loud or too dirty (although Ludwig inspected the Royal Guard’s uniforms regularly), he would be so much happier. Life would be so much rougher, so much more real. He would have a reason to have fangs and claws. If not for hunts, he would have no reason for his wolf form at all. He couldn’t even remember the last time Matthew shifted. Did he not enjoy the freedom, leaving human worries behind? And he was an Omega. He could _fly_. What could be more free than that?

“. . . so I just want to thank you all again for your continuing support of me and my family. I hope to serve you for many bright years to come.”

The crowd cheered; everyone who had been seated now stood. Berwald clapped his huge hands with the percussion of a musket, and Mathias let out a great congratulatory shout that nearly gave the elderly Omega a few rows back a heart attack. All the noise awoke Tino’s baby from his nap, but—being used to the company of his uncle—the toddler simply joined in with a cheerful _babababa!_ Some people threw roses onto the stage; Matthew ducked his chin with self-deprecating gratitude, but didn’t tilt his head too much, for fear of his crown slipping off. It was once worn daily, but now only for ceremonies of utmost formality.

Secretly, Matthew and Alfred both hoped he would never have to wear it again.

 

. . .

 

The sun was beginning to set when the news arrived.

Alfred felt like he was floating through the celebrations. He joked and laughed with citizens in the streets, but he had to decline offered drinks. He was allowed to be publicly intoxicated—Francis had done that countless times as prince and as king, including his second wedding day—but he wasn’t allowed to actually enjoy it. Brawling in the streets was illegal, as was disturbing the peace, and he knew those things were inevitable once beer or, God help us, whiskey got involved. The curse of aristocracy: maintain the image. Never someone to be feared, or disgusted by, or ashamed of.

He just wanted to be himself. Why was that too much to ask?

It got easier once evening came. Behind closed doors, lounging in one of the larger sitting rooms with people he viewed as family, Alfred could relax. Seated on a loveseat with his brother, he put an arm around Matthew’s shoulders and said, “Congratulations, King Mattie.”

Matthew smiled. Not in his perfect, princely—no, kingly, now—smile. A private, crooked one, with that sad glint to his eyes. “Thank you.”

Alfred leaned to whisper in his ear. “Does it feel like you thought it would?”

Matthew shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like anything just yet. Right now I’m just glad the speech is done.”

“Oh, stop it, your speech was great,” Alfred said, even though he’d barely heard any of it. He’d been too busy trying to stand in one spot.

“It was,” Mathias agreed, breaking off from his conversation with the adults. He raised his glass to Matthew, eyes twinkling. “A little boring, but still great.”

“Mathias.” Lukas gave him a scolding look, then smiled at Matthew. “Yes, it was an excellent address, for someone so young. I wish I had your eloquence when I was nineteen.”

Mathias nuzzled his mate’s temple. “Ah, nineteen. Remember when we—”

Lukas put a finger to his lips. “Hush. I know what you’re going to say. We should be happy those times are done. Such mindless violence, in those days . . .”

Alfred perked up, but Francis began to speak and Lukas seemed glad for the interruption: “The people loved your speech even more than they loved mine, when I was crowned. Your kingship will be peaceful. You’ll have no need to fear your people.”

Antonio looked down at his lap. A solemn air came over them all; Alfred knew they were thinking about the days before the Promega movement, when Naturalism—a word that could draw dirty looks from some people—plagued Western society. _What was it like?_ he wanted to ask. _What was it like to have something to fight for?_

“A toast.” Mathias raised his glass for approximately the hundredth time that day. Northerners loved their toasts. “To a peaceful future.”

Lukas raised his glass. (The other visitors from Scandinavia would have, too, but they were visiting bedridden Feli with Lovino as their escort.) Francis and Antonio followed suit.

Matthew glanced at Alfred. Alfred looked back. Neither brother saw what he wanted to see; they had become ghosts of the people they wanted to be, and neither had any idea how to remedy that.

“Cheers,” Alfred murmured, lifting his beer. “To you.”

Matthew clinked his glass against Alfred’s. “To us.”

Neither felt like drinking now, but a knock on the door saved them. An Omega servant bowed to the occupants of the room, then said, “Pardon my interruption, but a messenger has arrived from the East.”

The room’s energy changed instantly. Francis set down his drink, sitting up. Mathias and Lukas tensed. Though abruptly alert, no one said a word. Matthew realized it was now his responsibility, as the highest-ranked person here, to make the decisions.

“Send them in,” he said. “Please.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“Send them in,” he repeated, louder, cheeks warming.

“Oh! Right away, Your Grace.”

The servant retreated, was replaced by the messenger in the doorway. The foreign Omega’s status was difficult to ascertain. His clothing was black, simply designed but well-crafted. Middle class? Perhaps. In any case, he knelt before them all and said with accented but fluent English, “Greetings. I come as a humble message carrier from the Mighty and Honorable Emperor Yao. It is the highest honor to be in the presence of the first Omega King, the first High Omega. The first in a long line, our Sovran Omega hopes.”

Matthew blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “I thank Emperor Yao for sending his regards. I’m surprised he knew so soon.”

The messenger smiled lightly, but his eyes remained unreadable. This was not a soft Omega. “Everything travels much faster now. Including news.”

Francis’s hand crept upward, wrist bent just so. “Excusez-moi, but is this about the lumber agreement? I had thought that was sorted out already.”

Mathias’s gaze cut briefly to the retired king, impressed by how direct he had become. Too bad Francis hadn’t been like this years ago; perhaps they could have been friends. Of course, this change had not come without cost . . .

The messenger shook his head. “This is not about lumber. This is an invitation. Our Glorious Emperor extends this invitation to King Matthew Bonnefoy alone. He requests a meeting at his palace. He stressed that it must happen at once.”

Matthew glanced at the concerned faces of his family, the suspicious faces of the Jarls, then looked back to the messenger. “I, um, I see. And what is this meeting about?”

Now the messenger rose to his full height. “The Great Emperor Yao,” he replied with practised weight, “has requested a meeting to discuss the joining of Western and Eastern Eurasia.”


	2. Chapter 2

“There is of course something to be said

For equality and acceptance. But a line

Must somewhere be drawn. I don’t believe

That every individual must have a special

Label in order to be welcomed by society.

In fact, they already have one. Their name.”

_—Jarl Berwald Oxenstierna, on the Beta/Gamma debate_

 

“Equality applies to prey, too! You wouldn’t kill a bird, so why would you kill a rabbit?”

Lounging at the bottom of the castle steps in the morning sun, Alfred spared a strained smile for the protesters, but they mostly had their backs to him. Nearly all of them were Gammas, Omegas who only wanted to mate with other Omegas. Romeo was one of two Betas promoting vegetarianism in the city. _You’d think we’d get along really well, but I find him kind of annoying, to be honest,_ Romeo had confided in Alfred. _I don’t think he’s really a pacifist. He likes to argue too much._ Personally, Alfred didn’t think there was anything wrong with hunting prey and eating meat. He found farming pretty depressing—raising cows and chickens and goats just to murder them—but hunting was natural. Wolves had always been hunters, since the beginning of time. Was it a good thing to go against their natural purpose?

He didn’t dare say the word _natural_ , not with these Gammas around. They were liable to bite his princely head off.

Romeo sat down beside him, having handed off his sign featuring a drawing of a deer and a man, both with identical hearts beating in their chests. “Are you still angry? Should I give you space?”

Alfred shook his head. “You’re fine. You don’t have to talk to me, you should protest while you can. They don’t like the square being taken up like this.”

Romeo’s mouth twisted a little. He wrung his hands as if they were wet, a nervous habit inherited from Feliciano. “I’ll just watch them. It’s not really my . . .”

“Your thing,” Alfred supplied.

Romeo tapped his knee. “No, the word . . . what is it . . .” He brightened abruptly. “My element!”

Alfred smiled. “Right.” He wasn’t supposed to use informal words like _thing_ , but Romeo would never criticize him for vocabulary. He glanced over his shoulder, up at the grand oak doors of the castle. His home. Inside, Francis, Antonio, and Matthew were arguing about who should go along on the trip to the East. The messenger had been given a room in the castle for the night, a spur-of-the-moment decision Matthew made without consulting Francis, who afterward told Matthew never to offer rooms within the castle to anyone of a lower rank than him—meaning, only the Jarls or the Emperor could stay with them (and their mates, of course). The messenger had been involved in the beginning of the discussion, so Matthew could ask him, “Would Emperor Yao take it as an affront if I were accompanied by someone?”

“That depends who accompanies you, Your Majesty,” said the messenger. “The moral support of family is of course different than the military support of a brigade of guards. Our Glorious Sovran might think you did not trust that he would keep you safe in his territory.”

“Of course,” Matthew had echoed, nodding. “I wouldn’t come with a brigade. I don’t want to make a bad first impression.”

 _God forbid,_ Alfred was thinking. _This is ridiculous._

The messenger had been sent out, before things got heated. Francis was adamant that he should go along with Matthew. But that left Antonio to watch over the kingdom, and he claimed he was not up to the challenge. “It shouldn’t be a challenge,” Francis objected. “The people have no problem with you, Toni. No more problem than they have with me. And Ludwig will be . . . No. Ludwig should go with Matthew.” And this gave them all sober pause, because if Matthew had a limit to the guards he could bring, of course he should bring the one with the most training, and that was undoubtedly Ludwig. So the kingdom would be left with no head of state nor of military. Though they had no external fears, that would be the perfect time for an internal fear to rear its ugly head. Everyone in attendance, sans Alfred and Matthew, knew how easily rebellion could hide in plain sight.

“Then you stay home, Dad,” Alfred said, breaking the thoughtful silence. “You stay, and Matthew, Ludwig, and me—”

“And I,” Francis broke in, without even thinking about it. _That’s because of your mother,_ Antonio had told Alfred once, in a rare moment of rueful reflection. _Arthur was like that. Francis does some of the things Arthur used to do. I see Arthur in him, sometimes._ Then he’d given him a crooked smile that Alfred would never, ever forget, least of all because of the single tear that fell from the Spaniard’s remaining eye. _And in you._

“Matthew, Ludwig, _and I_ can go,” Alfred said. “Ludwig can protect us, and I’ll be there to give Mattie support. And, if worst comes to worst, I have some combat training.”

“No, you don’t,” Francis replied, rather snappish. “Has someone been training you?”

“No, someone said nobody _could_ train me,” Alfred retorted, even though he knew he looked and sounded like a brat. Well, too bad. His father was being a brat for not letting him learn to fight, for absolutely no reason. Why shouldn’t he be able to defend himself? What kind of sense did that make?

Francis glared. “Do not speak to me in that tone, Alfred. I am your father. Rank will not change that.”

It had never occurred to Alfred that he might outrank Francis, now that the French Alpha was no longer king. Technically, he did; he had a title, Francis did not. But the words were true: Francis was the dominant Alpha. Alfred couldn’t challenge him, couldn’t look him in the eye. Mathias and Ludwig were the only men Alfred had ever seen manage it.

“It does make sense, though,” Matthew interjected, stepping between them. “It sounds like a good idea to me. Ludwig can protect us if we need it. I doubt we will. They’ll keep us well-guarded, I’m sure.”

Francis’s gaze softened as he considered his older son’s words, and that alone made Alfred’s anger burn hotter. Why did there have to be a favorite? Why did Francis always look at Alfred like there was something wrong with him, like Francis expected to see someone else and was frustrated that he wound up with Alfred instead?

“You shouldn’t worry about us being protected,” Alfred found himself saying, on the edge of a snarl. “You don’t even want us to be able to protect ourselves. So I guess it’s not a big concern for you.”

Matthew regarded him with a mortified horror, a look of _oh dear god why did you have to say that?_ Antonio reached for Francis, trying to calm him before he did anything he would regret. But the retired king ignored them both, fixing an icy blue gaze on his younger son.

“The fact that you don’t understand why I forbid you from training,” Francis said, slow and quiet enough that misgiving prickled along the nape of Alfred’s neck, “is partly why I forbid you in the first place. You’re immature. You don’t think before you act.”

Alfred wished he could shift and bare his fangs at his father, but that would be unthinkably disrespectful. It would be like stripping naked in the middle of a conversation. It just wasn’t done. So he just strode to the door, opened it, and said, “Mathias is a leader and a warrior. If I was born in Scandinavia, I could be both. He would be proud of me, if he was my dad. He would actually care about what I want.”

“Oh, Alfred,” Romeo said now, gazing at him with wide, concerned eyes. “What did he say?”

Alfred shook his head, stretching his arms over his head and then crossing them over his chest. “Dunno. I slammed the door before he could say anything back.”

Romeo fell silent, and Alfred leaned his head back against a stone step, eyes closed because he didn’t want to see the judgement. His friend would never voice it, but he would undoubtedly have shock or shame in his eyes. Alfred couldn’t blame him; he was shocked and ashamed of it himself. What was he, a spoiled pup? No, he wasn’t spoiled. He had no mother, how could he ever be spoiled? Anyone growing up wanting for a parent—two parents, really, because Francis was hardly what he would call a good father figure—couldn’t be called spoiled. Could they?

“Uh-oh,” Romeo whispered.

Alfred opened his eyes, sitting up. Ludwig was approaching the group of Gammas. The head protester pushed her way to the front, hands on her hips, gazing stoutly up at the guard captain. She could only bring herself to look as far as his chin, but it was an unwavering gaze, fiery in its determination.

Ludwig, to his credit, didn’t look or sound angry. “Clear out, please. You’re disturbing the peace.”

The protesters huddled behind her, safety in numbers. She puffed herself up. “Isn’t this a police issue?”

The city had a small constabulary, and their main purpose was keeping the peace. For a time, they had been involved in seemingly endless investigations into abusive Alpha-mates. These days they assisted lawyers like Lovino in seeking justice, and of course they protected the law. The guards and the police struggled with their respective levels of authority; technically the Royal Guard had higher rank, but the police were now the only ones who could make arrests. Ludwig had made it clear to his guardsmen that if they saw a criminal, they were to detain it. If they then had to find a constable to make the arrest official, well, that’s just what they had to do. His priority was protecting people, the royals first, the citizens second, with Feliciano and Romeo in between.

“Not when you are blocking the path to the castle,” replied Ludwig, solemn as always. “This area must be clear. Please make it so.”

The Gamma huffed, but signaled to her group and led them away. Peaceful protest wasn’t against the law; they’d just have to go somewhere less high-traffic and be less noisy about it. Which completely defeated the purpose of protesting, but that reality was better than a night sleeping on straw in gaol.

At the back of the group, the Beta turned around. “Are you coming, Romeo?”

Ludwig looked at him, then at his son, brow low on his eyes. Under that pale blue gaze, Romeo shrunk into himself. He shook his head, gaze lowered. “No, I’ll stay here. You go.”

“Suit yourself.” Off they went, chanting quietly—if one could call it a chant without being oxymoronic—about prey equality. _Deer should have no fear! You should care about the hare!_

Alfred stood, helping Romeo up. Ludwig looked down at them both with an unreadable expression, but before he could say anything, Matthew came down the castle steps to stand between Alfred and Romeo. Ludwig bent at the waist to bow, and Romeo quickly followed suit.

Matthew smiled at them both. “At ease.” He turned his smile on Alfred briefly, but whatever he saw in Alfred’s face made it start to fade, so he looked back at Ludwig and Romeo. “The final decision has been made. Captain Beilschmidt will accompany myself and Prince Alfred to the East.”

Alfred couldn’t believe his ears. He grinned at Matthew. “How did you get him to agree to it?”

Still smiling, Matthew gave his head a little shake. “Later,” he said softly, and Alfred realized it was probably too personal an issue to speak about in front of other people. Not that he cared, but Matthew was a private creature, so he’d just have to wait until they had a moment alone.

Ludwig, who had in truth only come to the castle to hear what had been decided about the message from the East, inclined his head respectfully to Matthew. “Very well, Your Majesty. It will be an honor. Will that be all?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, thank you, Captain.”

Ludwig beckoned Romeo shortly. “Come.” With Feliciano bedridden, it fell to Romeo to do the majority of the cooking; it was time for him to head home and make lunch for his family. He hesitated, then gave Alfred a brief embrace. “In case I don’t see you before you leave,” he whispered. “Please be safe.”

Alfred squeezed him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m invincible.”

Romeo couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, absolutely.”

They pulled apart, Romeo avoiding his father’s gaze. To Ludwig’s credit, he didn’t look overly disapproving of their hug. He didn’t think it was such a terrible thing for Alphas to show emotion, to be loving, to be kind. And he couldn’t be openly against Alphas who mated other Alphas, because their retired king was such an Alpha. He supposed it was just the old cliche. He wanted to have grandchildren. He wanted his Alpha son to be big and strong like him, and find himself a pretty Omega to court. He wanted his son to turn out like him, to turn out _better_ than him. The path Romeo was on, all this Beta and vegetarian business, was needlessly complicated. Conflict and heartbreak were in the fate Romeo was headed toward. Ludwig wanted to steer him to a simpler, safer path. What was so wrong about that?

In silence, Matthew and Alfred watched Ludwig and Romeo cross the square, vanish from sight round the side of a building. The half-brothers turned to each other.

“Don’t talk to Papa for a few hours,” Matthew advised.

Alfred kicked a pebble. “That was the plan, anyway.”

Matthew sighed lightly, looking up at the clouds. “I wish you two could get along.”

Alfred considered snapping at him in self-defense, then just let the anger slough off his shoulders and instead lifted his chin to enjoy the fluffy clouds, as well. “So do I.”

A pensive silence came over them.

“He doesn’t hate you, you know,” Matthew murmured.

Alfred didn’t look at him. “Yeah. He doesn’t hate the prince he wants me to be.”

Matthew didn’t have anything to say to that. Alfred searched the sky, pleading for any sign that his mother was watching over him. _If you were here, you’d let me do what I want, wouldn’t you? You fought. Wouldn’t you let me fight? You’d let me be who I want to be._

“Hej, Prince Alfie.” Mathias and Lukas were on their way across the square, Mathias’s strides automatically shortening so Lukas could keep pace with him. “We just ran into Ludwig—and I do mean ran into, but luckily he’s very solid—and he tells me you’re headed off on a journey.”

Alfred nodded. Few people could lift his spirits like Mathias. “That’s right.”

Lukas’s expression was serious as ever. “Take caution. We have had few dealings with the East, but the Emperor is . . .” For the first time in the collective memory, Lukas was at a loss for words. He shook his head. “He is very intelligent, and very firm in his beliefs. He is manipulative.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “Do you think it was a mistake to agree to visit him?”

Lukas shook his head. “No. I think it is inevitable that you two will meet. Better to do it at his palace than on the battlefield. But keep your wits about you.”

Mathias pouted. “Min nat has become a pacifist.” He touched Lukas’s cheek, only to be ignored while the other jarl spoke to the king about the emperor. Unbothered, Mathias turned to Alfred. “I thought we should have a hunt together, before you leave. Is it tomorrow you go?”

“Yes,” Matthew provided, since Alfred didn’t know. Both brothers were glad for how soon their departure was; that gave them less time to stress about it.

“Then let’s go kill something, shall we?” asked Mathias, an infamous giant grin in the works. “This afternoon. We can leave right now, actually, unless you have something better to do.”

“Well . . .” Alfred watched Matthew and Lukas climb the steps, headed for one of the castle’s numerous sitting rooms. No doubt they would spend the next three hours discussing the Court of Jarls’ past dealings with Eastern Eurasia, the history of this guy and those ancestors and this religion and that battle. None of it would be of any interest to Alfred, but Matthew would listen attentively, asking all the right questions and coming out of it better prepared to be a great and noble leader. Or, alternatively, Alfred could go hunting with Mathias, spend the afternoon on four legs, relishing the feeling of togetherness that hunting gave, the power of fang and claw, the carnal pleasure of stalking, springing, killing. And, not to mention, the added bonus of at last being respected by another Alpha as an animal, a beast capable of fending for himself and defending the others in his pack.

“No,” Alfred replied. “Let’s go.”

 

. . .

 

“So how was your hunt?” Matthew asked, the following afternoon.

Alfred shifted his legs, uncrossing his ankles and recrossing them the opposite way. The carriage they sat in was roomy, but he was dying to stand up, walk a bit, use his muscles. Ludwig was alternating between riding with the driver and trotting behind the carriage in wolf form, and Alfred couldn’t be more envious. They’d been travelling four hours now, and they wouldn’t stop for another six hours, when they’d stay overnight in a hotel. The far-flung towns and villages would house them each night for the first three weeks of their journey; then they would climb aboard the train—one of the East’s newest technological advancements—and reach the heart of the Eastern empire in only four days. It was far too much sitting down. Alfred wished he could have flown ahead with the Omega messenger, long gone now.

“It was good,” Alfred replied. “We didn’t catch anything.”

As expected, Matthew looked confused. “What was good about it, if you didn’t catch anything?”

Alfred was, of course, fully in favor of Alpha and Omega equality, but he was also the first to admit that there were simply some things about Alphas that Omegas—and vice versa—just couldn’t understand. Omegas were known to have a strong sense of family, and to be fiercely protective of their babies, but that was as far as they could understand the innate kinship of a group of wolves setting out to run together. They didn’t _need_ to catch anything. Running and rallying and playing and just being alive were the most important parts.

“Oh, it’s just an Alpha thing,” Alfred replied, glancing out the window. “Don’t worry about it.”

Matthew looked at his half-brother sadly, suppressing a sigh. When they were children, they played together all the time: Alfred the pup chasing Matthew the boy, Matthew helping Alfred learn to walk on chubby legs, the pair of them singing nursery rhymes with squeaky voices, both the apple of Francis’s eye. Then, around the age of twelve, Alfred’s obsession with Arthur developed. Matthew had probably been asked a hundred times, _Do you remember my mother?_ Always with the singular possessive, from the very start, claiming Arthur for his own; perhaps that was why Matthew always said no, even though he did have a few memories of Arthur. Green eyes, warm green eyes. Sitting in his lap while he played with his dolls. A snatch of accented voice, counting out maple candies that Matthew eagerly ate. _One, two, three sweeties._ Matthew did feel guilty, sometimes, for hoarding these memories of Arthur, keeping them tucked under his pillow for sleepless nights. Arthur wasn’t Matthew’s blood mother, but he’d still helped raise him. Just because Matthew wasn’t an angsty sixteen-year-old about it didn’t mean his grief for Arthur was less valid. And his closeness to Francis didn’t mean he thought the retired king was the perfect parent. Of course not. No one was perfect.

 _It isn’t fair to Arthur,_ Matthew thought, watching his half-brother gaze glumly out the carriage window. _You think it’s bad that people don’t remember him as a person, but you’re just as bad. How could he ever compare to the mother you’re imagining him to be?_

“I asked Mathias if I could live with him,” Alfred said abruptly.

Matthew sat up, torn from his reverie. “What? When?”

Skull against the headrest, Alfred rolled his head to the side to regard his half-brother lazily. “When did I ask, or when am I going?”

Now Matthew felt the four years of difference in their ages. He felt like an old, old soul. _Francis was right. You act without thinking._ “When are you going?”

“I dunno. Maybe I won’t go.” He shrugged. “I just asked him what he thought about me staying in Scandinavia for a while. He said he thought it was a great idea. He loves me.”

“He loves us,” Matthew corrected, far quieter than he’d intended.

“What?”

Matthew shook his head. “You’ll break Papa’s heart.”

Pain brightened Alfred’s blue eyes. “Well, maybe he should have thought about _my_ heart.”

Sudden annoyance at Alfred’s selfishness burned across Matthew’s chest. “Is this all about the combat training issue? Because really—”

“Don’t even start.” Alfred didn’t glare, had never glared at his half-brother, but he came close now. “You know it’s more than that. Don’t make me the bad guy.”

 _What are you, then?_ Matthew stayed silent, didn’t ask the ugly question, nor did he voice its ridiculous answer:  _The hero?_

 

. . .

 

The train turned out to be a lot fancier and louder than the Westerners expected. The other cars in the train held coal and lumber and other goods allowed in the tentative trade agreement between Francis and Yao—which Matthew would likely have to confirm his support of during the visit. There were not many passengers, despite multiple cars for people. “One for each class of people,” the conductor said, in French (no one spoke English this far east). “You are first class, of course, Your Excellencies.”

Leather seats, rosewood paneling, surprisingly dusty glass windows that opened and closed via a rotating handle. Three Eastern Alphas, all of them raven-haired and muscled not in the broad, brawny sense of Ludwig or Berwald, but in a more lithe, supple way that hinted at a fighting style based in agility rather than brute force. Alfred admired that about them, but it made Matthew nervous. They were just so . . . wolfish. Not just their physique—there was something about their eyes, something lacking. _Is it just because their eyes are so dark? Oh no. Perfect, Mattie, you’re already being racist._ Matthew tossed out the idea that the Alphas seemed strange, instead smiling widely at them as he and Alfred sat down opposite each other. “Thank you for escorting us.”

The nearest Eastern Alpha didn’t seem to understand what he said; the other two looked out the windows in between bouts of staring at Ludwig and Alfred. Matthew found himself wishing the messenger had come along; at least he spoke English, and could have translated for them.

After some whistling, the train gave a great roar and began chugging along the tracks. _Four days of this,_ Matthew and Alfred thought in unison. The silence stretched, and Alfred’s patience stretched right along with it, until he finally began rambling to Ludwig about what Matthew was tempted to dismiss as _Alpha nonsense._ Prey, mostly, what prey animals Ludwig knew were in the east, how they compared to those in the west, how hunting styles might differ with this new terrain, hoofprints and sand and scent-versus-sight and _what was your most exciting kill rush?_ Eventually Matthew just tuned it out, watching surprisingly familiar flora come and go. Trees, trees, trees. Endless greenery combined with the steady rhythm of the train made short work of Matthew’s wakefulness. He glanced at Ludwig and Alfred, still enraptured in their talk. Then he looked toward the Eastern Alphas; two were sitting down, one leaning against the wall, all of them watching their guests with those unreadable, intense, almost . . . predatory gazes.

 _Don’t worry about it,_ Matthew told himself. _You worry too much, like Papa. Ludwig will keep us safe._

In a last attempt to keep awake, he turned the handle a little, opening the window a few inches. The breeze on his face wasn’t nearly cool enough to keep him awake. He slowly sunk down in his seat, cuddling up in the corner made by the seat-back and the wall. _A little nap never hurt anybody._ He closed his eyes.

“MATT! RUN!”

There was no time for yawning, stretching, rubbing of eyes. There was just Alfred’s iron grip on his wrist wrenching him from his seat, and the vicious growls of fighting wolves. Matthew dropped to his hands and knees, unbalanced, and Alfred messily shoved him away. In the corner of his eye, Matthew saw a ripple of golden fur overtake his brother, and then the growls were deafening. Matthew scrambled to the end of the car and hauled himself to his feet, at last taking in the horror of the situation.

It was three black wolves against two tawny ones. Ludwig was fighting a losing battle; when he bit one, the other slashed him. His fur and the floor were already awash with German blood. Alfred was faring no better with just one opponent; his only combat training was to clobber and overpower, but these Alphas were too swift. They leapt in, tore a strip from their victim, and danced back out of range as if it were all a merry game, their thin tails flicking like a cat’s. Matthew was helpless against it; what could he do? He’d run to the end of the car with no connecting door. The other end led to a lower class car, if you were brave enough to hop over the gap in between. With the distance and roar of the engine, they wouldn’t be able to hear the sounds of aggression and suffering in here. The conductor was an Eastern Omega, would he help them? _Yao is manipulative,_ Lukas had warned. What if this was all a trap?

_What have I done?_

Alfred turned his back on his opponent and tore into the shoulder of one of Ludwig’s assailants. The black wolf screamed, twisting like a snake to sink his fangs into Alfred’s throat—or he would have, if not for Ludwig grabbing his ear. Now the four of them rolled about, tussling with sharp teeth and blunt claws, ripping fur and skin. It was fair, number-wise.

Because the remaining Alpha had turned to face Matthew.

He stepped back, hands up, but he hit the wall. He wanted to plead, but what could he bargain with? How could he surrender, even, if they couldn’t understand him? Alfred’s order echoed: _RUN._ He couldn’t leave his brother, his friend! He was their kin, their king. He was supposed to protect them, wasn’t he?

Baring teeth tainted with blood, the black wolf lunged at him.

Matthew shifted to his bird form, flapping madly. Out of the wolf’s reach, up to the ceiling. In that instant, he saw Alfred and Alfred saw him. The blue-eyed wolf gave one sharp bark before he was overwhelmed once again by the attackers. Matthew didn’t need a translation.

He cut left and flew out through the cracked window.

The turbulence of the train cutting through the air nearly had Matthew tumbling out of the sky, but he righted himself and winged into the trees. Behind him, he heard the shock of cracking glass, followed by heavy footfalls. Did they jump out? He couldn’t look back. He flew deeper into the forest as the sun set, flew until his wings ached and his little heart couldn’t beat any faster. He flew until he could think beyond the soul-eating shame that he was a coward who could not fight, who saved his own skin over that of his loved ones.

Matthew wasn’t a warrior; he did not want to be a jarl. But if this was the true burden of a king . . .

He landed on a topmost branch of a pine tree, high up enough that he didn’t fear being spotted and didn’t think a hunting Alpha could climb up to him. He folded his wings, perching as close to the tree trunk as he could get. A tiny dove, stranded on the outskirts of a foreign empire. Lost, exhausted, terrified. Alone.

 _Yao is manipulative._ The thought of Lukas, of Francis, of _home_ made him want to cry, but thankfully his animal form was incapable of emotional tears. The human feelings of regret and nostalgia swirled round in his wee chest, but they didn’t affect him as potently as they would have if he was human. _Manipulative._ Matthew clung to the word. If he’d wanted to assassinate a pair of young royals, he needn’t have sent a messenger, staged this train ride. He could have just sent one of those feline Alphas with a caplock pistol or even just a blade and patience. _Yao must have a reason for bringing us here. He must._ He had to, because that meant that Alfred and Ludwig would be kept alive. Alfred, at least.

Matthew couldn’t take such grim thoughts. He held onto his hope as darkness overtook him and stars poked through the black of the sky. No steam engine, no growling wolves, just the clicks and whispers of nighttime insects. Matthew would have cried himself to sleep, but instead he just sat awake, replaying the sight of Ludwig and Alfred being torn apart, until he was beyond exhaustion and could do nothing else but fall into fitful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY HEAR ME OUT. I know this is pathetically short, but the order of things just wasn't working for me. So, essentially: screw it. I dunno if I'll keep Mattie and Alfie's chapters separate the whole time or just this once; it depends on the length of things. Regardless, apologies for the brevity of this particular chappie, and of course, thank you for reading :)

“The tales of old describe magick thusly:

Men would walk spirit trails in the mountains

and return with feathers in their skin.

Women would die in childbirth, only to be cut open

to reveal a litter of wolf pups.

Though belief means little to the North or the West,

many people say the farther East you go,

the more magick you will find.”

_—Vladimir Popescu, The Hidden Forces of Eurasia_

 

A dark, shadowy room. Two wolves lay in tatters, night-black blood oozing from slashes in their fur. They barely breathed; each inhalation brought forth an agonized shudder, each exhale a heartbreaking whimper. Gloved hands grabbed the smaller wolf, yanking him up by the scruff of his neck. A terrified yelp broke the hush, and bright blue eyes flew open, giving light—light that faded until those eyes were no more than glossy marbles as one of the demon hands drew a blade across Alfred’s bared throat.

 _Alfred!_ Matthew woke with a start, desperate to fight through the gauzy binds of slumber, to save his brother. His movements were too large for his small perch, his disorientation sending him into a frightened, instinctive fit of flapping that only served to further unbalance him. His tiny claws slipped, and down he tumbled.

He struggled against gravity, fighting to right himself, but the second he got properly angled he was smacking into a branch. He reeled beak over tail, vision flashing with a blur of tree trunks, soft dawn peeking through the treetops, the approaching ground— _please, not my head_ —no time to—

_CRASH._

For several seconds, Matthew remained still, too shocked to feel anything at all. All of him felt blunt, numb, almost outside of himself. _Am I dead?_

Abruptly, in the manner of a throat being cleared, the breeze picked up, ruffling Matthew’s feathers.

Now the pain came, proving that he was most assuredly not dead. It radiated from his right wing, which was folded unnaturally beneath him. He got to his little feet and tentatively stretched out his wings. The left obeyed, but the right burned with pain—and when he tried to tuck it against his side, it hurt even worse. Matthew looked down at the wing, hanging limp on the brown pine needles. There was no blood, no broken skin. _Just a fracture. I hope._

As if the mission of finding and rescuing Alfred and Ludwig wasn’t already daunting enough, now he had to face it with a broken wing. There could be wolves anywhere, hunting him. He cowered. It would be easier for him to hide, as a dove, but if he needed to flee, he was screwed. Besides, his human stride was a lot longer than the hops and waddles of a grounded dove. So, though dread prickled in his belly, he began to shift.

Normally, shifting was a smooth ripple, as effortless as shrugging off a coat. Most of it was, now—until that ripple reached his wing. Matthew felt every particle altering. It was painful in a low, burning way, but also in a sharp, over-sensitive way. Like every feather, every inch of hollow bone, every pore in his skin was shivering, lamenting the flaw in its once elegant, seamless system. Matthew shivered on his knees, fingers bunching in the soft ear beneath the carpet of needles. It was awful, and then—breathlessly—it was over.

 _There,_ he thought, using his good arm to steady himself against a tree trunk, _now I’m a stranded boy, not a broken dove. What an improvement._ He took off his thin morning coat and awkwardly, with much trial and error, fashioned himself a sling. The break was in his upper arm, so at least he could use his wrist to an extent. But that was little consolation.

He rotated slowly, taking in nondescript forest, endless coniferous trees and lightly pitted ground. He’d last seen this place from above, at night, with fear twisting his perception. He had no point of orientation, aside from this cursed tree, and even then he didn’t know which way he’d come to it from. If he found the train tracks, he could find the city, and find Yao’s palace. But then again, those were out in the open, and he didn’t know if any Alphas were hunting him . . .

Matthew often wanted to cry, but he hadn’t come this close in quite a while.

He pressed close to the trunk of his tree, breathing deeply. _I can’t freak out. Stay calm._ His father always had Antonio to calm him down, but Matthew had no one. Another tiny heartbreak, to add to the pile. _Come on. You’re a king now. You have to make a decision and stick to it._ He couldn’t linger here while Alfred could be suffering. _Alfred is brave._ He pushed away from the security of the familiar tree and began to walk. _I can be brave, too._

 

. . .

 

Matthew had heard of dehydration, of course. Who hadn’t? He’d always assumed it was just the feeling of being really thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been as a royal with overflowing resources. By the time evening came, Matthew understood what dehydration truly was. His mouth was dry, his throat sore, his lips chapped. His limbs felt clunky, weakening by the hour. His arm was fractured, he was almost certain, because he was also almost certain that if it had been a true break he would have collapsed by now. He had little hope of climbing a tree for the night. Even if he could find one suitable, he’d probably break something else on the way down in the morning.

The fact that he knew nothing—the size of this never-ending forest, the right direction to go, why any of this was even happening—made him want to surrender to helplessness. _A king can’t whine. He has to be brave and strong._ Matthew wasn’t sure if he could handle being one of those right now, let alone both at the same time.

He was making progress, wasn’t he? He’d spent the whole day walking. _What if I’m walking away from the city?_ He had to throw out thoughts like that as soon as they came into his head. He had to stay positive, even if that might be madness. _I’ll find them. I’ll find them._

As the sun set and tiny flies began pestering him for his blood, Matthew eased himself to the cool, dusty ground and curled up at the bottom of a tree, hugging himself and shivering, longing for home, for his father, for his brother.

His dream was bizarre, one he barely remembered in the morning, only as the strange feeling it inspired. He was in the castle, searching for his family, but they were nowhere to be found. He was tiny, toddling along, squeaking for his mother even though he knew no mother could come. For some reason, he knew that both of his parents had abandoned him. Who told him this? Someone he trusted, someone he loved. But that was a lie, surely. Why would he love someone who lied to him? But there was a voice, wasn’t there? Yes, there was a voice, from someone he couldn’t see, but he could hear him, saying a word he didn’t know, a word that made Matthew feel safe.

It was that feeling, the random sense of safety in the middle of this life-threatening terror, that Matthew felt when he woke. While the breeze whispered outside of him, that word whispered inside, both of them indecipherable and yet still comforting.

 _Neffe_.

 

. . .

 

The next morning, he awoke to a branch of berries.

Not exactly a branch. Several branches; it was as if someone had uprooted half a bush and left it next to Matthew. He sat up, looked around in bewilderment. Nothing, no faces peeking out between trees, no footprints, no sign that anyone had been here beyond their gift. As loudly as he dared, Matthew asked, “Hello?”

Nothing.

He pulled a berry from the branches. Red, with the firm feel of a ripe fruit. Was someone trying to poison him? _But why do that, when they could have just killed me?_ Matthew decided he’d risk the berries, since he only had so long before his lack of water intake killed him. Three days, that was the famous claim. He had, what, one left? Give or take some hours? _Screw it._ He put the berry in his mouth.

Sour enough that his face pinched and puckered, but not disgusting. He ate them all, starting with a token attempt to savor them that quickly devolved into stuffing a handful into his mouth at a time. They weren’t filling, but the juice quenched his thirst a little. It was nutrition, in some sense.

When there were no berries left, only the brown skeleton that had borne them, he lifted his head to scan the trees again. “Thank you,” he said, a bit raspy. “Can you . . . can you show me where there’s water? Please?”

As he said it, he realized how silly it was. Talking to someone who might not be there was one thing, but talking to them in a language they would most likely not understand was another thing entirely. Why would someone in Middle of Nowhere, Eastern Eurasia, speak English? He considered repeating the inquiry in French, but that just seemed like an even bigger stretch. So he waited for any form of response, and when none came, he sighed and got unsteadily to his feet.

 

. . .

 

_Nothing._

He found no water, no food, and no sign of civilization. No sign of Alphas attempting to murder him, either, but at least that would’ve been a break from the monotony.

The only thing that changed was the position of the sun and the amount of pain in his body. First it was only his arm. Then his throat ached, then his lips began to crack, and his feet hurt, not to mention his knees, and his empty stomach provided him with a twisting discomfort that ebbed and flowed in a sea of nausea.

Time was running out. He had to take breaks, more and more frequently, because continuous trekking left him lightheaded. It was barely evening when his latest break came, but he couldn’t summon the strength to push himself back up. Sleep, sleep was a lovely concept. He lowered himself down onto his back, fallen leaves tickling his neck. He’d never been this dirty, the forest floor tangled in his hair. He didn’t look like a king. He looked like someone who would die of dehydration tomorrow.

He couldn’t fear being caught. Hindered only by the weakness of his voice, he said to whatever being was keeping watch over him, “Please, if you’re listening, please help me find water. Please. I need to live so I can find my brother.”

How selfless he sounded. He wondered, briefly, if he would be trying this hard if only his own life was on the line. Would he have given in by now? Or would the natural self-defense instincts keep him clinging to the mortal coil as long as he could?

There were no answers in this forest. He closed his eyes, but he was too exhausted to dream.

 

. . .

 

The next morning, his eyelids were stuck together. Opening them felt Herculean. His entire body ached. He whimpered as he pushed himself up. Now he would have easily cried tears of frustration and helplessness, but his ducts had dried up. He felt like a husk. No. Like chaff. Dry, useless, abandoned.

Or, perhaps not abandoned. Beside him, a new cluster of branches was left for him, and—his heart shivered—this was not the only torn bush. A few feet away, a shrub had been ripped from the ground. A couple strides after that, a clump of ferns lay flat, trampled. Matthew stood with new-found strength. Another bush, and another, and another. A trail of tidy destruction.

 _Please,_ he thought as he stumbled along the path, _please._ He couldn’t even think past that, that one pleading word of hope. He ate his berries as he went along; it felt like his mouth absorbed the juice before he could swallow. He barely tasted them, and nearly choked on a handful when he gave a joyful gasp.

A tumble of rocks in the gently sloping terrain, and flowing from a crack was a blissfully clean stream of water.

Matthew dropped to his knees, cupping the water in his hands and sipping ravenously. Again and again, cupping and sipping. Then he ate the rest of his berries. Then he drank and drank some more, and splashed water over his face and down his neck. Then, at last, he sat back on his knees, finally feeling rejuvenated. He scanned the undergrowth, but of course, no one was there. Still, he smiled. “Thank you.”

Behind him. The distinct sound of a twig snapping.

Matthew rose to his feet, turning around. “Are you there?”

His eyes found movement in the shrubs. Shadows, shaking leaves, and there . . . A dark-furred wolf crept forward, ears pinned back. Matthew recognized the Alpha who had lunged at him on the train. _Run. Run._ He couldn’t outrun a wolf, even at peak fitness. He stepped backward slowly, but his foot slipped on the wet rock and he staggered back through the water and fell down on the other side of the stream. He had no time to be jarred by the hard landing, because the black wolf was baring his fangs and rushing forward—!

And then, a streak of silver.

A white wolf leapt over Matthew and slammed into the black beast. They tussled, snarling savagely, the black trying to feint but the white staying hard on him, only just missing with each snapping of his jaws, fangs coming together again and again, slicing like blades. Ludwig fought with military precision, but this Alpha fought with a deadly mix of skill and savagery. The Eastern Alpha was cocky, thinking the fight against such a big wolf would be easy. But the white had surprising agility, and a carnal desperation to kill. The black wolf surged upward, swiping with his paws at the white wolf’s face, kicking with his hind legs as the bigger wolf pinned him down. With a mighty growl that sounded more bear than wolf, the white drove straight for the throat. The black wolf’s scream fell short as the white bit down, hard, and gave his quarry a good shake to ensure it was dead.

Matthew, still sitting there in stunned silence, could only watch as the white wolf stepped away from the dead Alpha’s body. Matthew’s breath caught in his throat when the victorious Alpha turned to look at him.

The white wolf’s eyes were as red as the blood on his muzzle.


	4. Chapter 4

“...but the true highest achievement [of the Omega]

is the taming of the Alpha. A properly Tamed and trained wolf

is a mark of status. They will guard your home,

retrieve dropped items, lift heavy objects, and of course

serve their Base purpose of relieving their Master or Mistress

of that meddlesome monthly Condition.”

_—The Benefits of Alphas to the Modern Household_

 

Muzzled.

Never before had Alfred been subject to such indignity. After being assaulted by the Eastern Alphas on the train, to have cruel harnesses clamp his muzzle shut and tie him in place like any beast of burden—it was just salt in the ever-burning wounds. Ludwig bore the brunt of the damage; he barely stood for the remainder of their journey, conserving his energy and whimpering softly whenever the train banged over rough terrain. Alfred spent the first day attempting to outwit the Easterners, thinking to attack when they removed the muzzles to feed them. How foolish of him, to assume they would be fed. They were offered only water in a shallow bowl that, because of the binds, Alfred had to shove his entire nose into in order to drink. Ludwig struggled to lift his head high enough for that; instead, they poured water over his snout. Watching the Guard captain lap feebly like an ancient wolf was enough to make Alfred want to howl, but of course he couldn’t. He could only curl up beside him and wait.

When the train finally came to a halt, Alfred thought he was dreaming it. The roar and judder of the engine had become the basis of reality; without those things, he felt almost numb. He had no time to accustom himself to it, however, or to anything. The Eastern Alphas half-lifted, half-dragged Alfred and Ludwig from the train, onto dusty ground, then immediately into the back of a covered wagon. Alfred only caught a glimpse of the outdoors before he was again enclosed, and he thought his eyes must have been playing tricks on him. It had looked like a quartet of Alphas, harnessed to a wagon much like the one he was now trapped in. There was a harsh cry in a language Alfred didn’t understand, and then they were rolling along.

Everything was unfamiliar, but the most disturbing were the scents he could make out over the fearsome smell of blood from Ludwig, who was unconscious now. Strange, spiced, smoky scents snuck into the wagon. Alfred tucked his tail between his legs and huddled close to the German Alpha, the only thing he knew in this foreign hell.

 _He’s wounded because he had to save me,_ he thought. _I shouldn’t have surrendered. I’m a coward._

He would fight, when they opened those wagon doors. He would surge like a mighty beast and . . . well, there was the matter of the muzzle, but he’d deal with that when the time came. He could knock at least one man down . . . except there was a good chance he’d fall over, too, since his legs were bound. All he had on his side was the element of surprise and brief momentum. Was that enough to save himself, find a way to get untied, and go track his brother? But, then, what about Ludwig? And even if he did manage all those impossible tasks, how could they possibly get back home? He wasn’t running across a continent with Ludwig and Matthew on his back. _This is why I’m not the king,_ he despaired. He wasn’t cut out for all this damned planning and fretting!

In the middle of his throes, he was caught off-guard by the stopping of the wagon. He tried to brace himself, but it was quite difficult to stand up with his ankles tied together. He heard footsteps, rounding the wagon. A growl rumbled in his throat. Now was the time! As soon as the door opened, as soon as he saw so much as the hint of daylight, he rushed!

And heroically tripped over his own paws, smacking into the door on his way down.

The Eastern Alphas grabbed hold of their makeshift collars and hauled them roughly out, onto the ground. The Alphas exchanged brief, flat words before one broke off from the group and walked swiftly away. Another Alpha unsheathed a knife, and Alfred jerked away as best he could. He would not be a coward. He would go down fighting, like Mathias would, like his mother had. He snarled and writhed wildly, flexing desperately against the binds. One of the Alphas bared his teeth at him, despite being in human form. The one with the knife actually growled, and kicked him in the flank.

They had no time to truly initiate the savagery, however, because there came a sharp cry in another language followed by the English version: “That will be quite enough.”

The guards immediately stepped back, kneeling with their heads bowed.

Panting, Alfred craned his neck to see. They had been brought to the courtyard of the emperor’s palace, and it was from one of the grand rounded doorways of the palace that three men now stepped. One was the guard who had left. The shortest was a man with the darkest eyes Alfred had ever seen. And the one in the middle was regal enough to put his father to shame. Where Francis was all about jewels and flash, this Omega wore fairly simple scarlet robes with gold accents, and his hair—though undoubtedly lovely and glossy—was tied back in an orderly queue.

In a formal, emotionless tone, Yao said, “You will release these Alphas from their binds. You will bring that one to a medic, to be healed.”

Without pause, the guards moved to obey the orders. As soon as Alfred’s ropes were cut, he snapped at the Alpha with the knife (who ignored him) and stood up, shifting to human form as he did.

“What the hell is this all about?” he demanded. “You invited us here, and within five seconds we’re being atta—”

Yao stepped forward and backhanded Alfred, hard enough that he saw stars. “You will learn respect,” he said. His tone was frigid, but his eyes were fire. “Very, very quickly.”

A blow to the back of Alfred’s knees had him dropping. A blade, much smaller and far more wicked than the one used to saw through his ropes, was held to his throat. And a voice, thin but firm, ordered from behind him, “Shift. Now.”

Alfred glared up at Yao, with all the fury he could summon. The emperor’s expression remained unchanged. He was nothing here, absolutely nothing. He had no choice but to obey, letting fur ripple over him once again. He’d no sooner dropped to four legs when a collar was secured around his neck—not a rope, but a chain with several prongs that ground painfully into his neck when he moved—and a muzzle was shoved onto his snout—again not rope, but a sort of wire basket that secured to the collar at the back of his head. Trying to remove the muzzle would only choke him. What clever monsters these Omegas were. But the ultimate humiliation came last: the quiet, short Omega clipped a lead to the joining of the collar and the muzzle, giving him full control of Alfred’s head. He was no better than a horse, a stupid animal.

He pinned his ears back, hackles lifting, and growled at both the emperor and his underling. This was not guards going against their leaders’ wishes. This was a full-out act of war.

Yao shook his head, chuckling. “I’m almost tempted to watch the taming of this one. Alas, I have other matters to attend.” His thin lip curled slightly in a sneer. “You are the perfect Alpha specimen. Big, brawny, brainless. You will serve us well, once the attitude has been beaten out of you. Enjoy it, General.”

The small Omega gave shallow bow, then jerked the lead, turning on his heel and leaving Alfred no choice but to follow. He could fight, but he hadn’t forgotten about that knife, and besides, the general had the most lithe, toned body Alfred had ever seen on an Omega. He was built for springing and slicing. Alfred couldn’t end up invalid with Ludwig, whom he suspected was only being healed because he, too, was large and thus would _serve well._ Alfred didn’t have to ponder the meaning of that very long.

They left the courtyard and strolled down a pathway. The palace rose behind them, watching their exit with sleepy eyes. Alfred tried to comfort himself imagining Francis waxing poetic about how gorgeous the ponds and statues were, but it didn’t help. Nearby groundsmen in masks dropped their tools and bent at the waist when they noticed the general walking by. They swiftly abandoned the soft greens and golds of the royal grounds for the hard greys and browns of the city. Alfred lived in the biggest city in Western Eurasia, but that could not prepare him for this. People were _everywhere._ People, and _wolves._ Alphas on leads, like him, heeling obediently. Teams of Alphas in harnesses, pulling sledges stacked with wares or light carts with merry Omegas riding along. Alphas sitting in doorways, staring straight ahead. Most were muzzled, and all were collared. The Omegas, all chatting and laughing and shouting in human form, ignored the Alphas except to give something sharp: orders, the yank of a lead, the lash of a whip. Alfred saw one wolf in a little cleared area, where the ground was sand: a play area of sorts, for children. Two young nestlings sat on the Alpha’s back, one kicking his sides to make him walk faster, the other yanking on his ears and squealing in delight. None of the wolves, not even that one, looked angry or even unhappy. Even when Alfred directly stared into another Alpha’s eyes—rude, at best, and a challenge, at worst—the other wolf gazed right through him. They all, every last one of them, had utterly blank eyes. Not Alphas, just beasts obeying their masters.

Alfred was thoroughly sickened by the time they reached their destination. An unmarked stone building set apart from identical blocks of property; none of them had windows, and all had the same reek of musk, angry and fearful wolves. Alfred dug in his paws instinctively, but the general was relentless on the lead. Into the building they went. Alfred was led down a dark passageway, and his tail tucked instinctively at the scent of old wolf blood. They went down a staircase, rough stone scraping Alfred’s claws. Three scarred doors offered themselves, and Kiku chose the middle one. A mighty creak, and Alfred was shoved into a bizarre chamber.

It was a circle, a ring. Rounded stone walls stood all around him, too high and smooth to climb, though they were hideous with claw marks and old blood. The ground was sand; Alfred wondered how deep he would need to dig to find clumps of fur, lost teeth, bones. The air was thick with the stench of suffering and death. The general removed the lead from Alfred and stepped out of the room. The door hung open, blackness beyond, but only for a second—then the Alfred’s captor was back in, and this time hefting a cudgel. The archaic weapon looked comical in this small, refined Omega’s hand, but he held it with a surety that Alfred was wary of. The general stepped forward. Alfred held his ground, watchful.

The general took another step, eyes like bits of coal. Alfred still didn’t move, but every muscle tensed in his body. _Remember watching the guards train. Remember how Ludwig fights._ Curse Francis, curse his soul to the lowest circle of hell for not letting Alfred train. If he could fight, Ludwig wouldn’t be who-knew-where, Matthew wouldn’t be lost, and Alfred wouldn’t be facing this by himself.

 _Maybe I can shift, get the muzzle off, then shift back and attack._ That sounded like a good plan to him. He didn’t have all the time to plan out his next movements, but that was alright. He could do what felt right, what his instincts told him to do.

This time, when Kiku came forward, Alfred backed up. The general’s brow lowered slightly, and Alfred bolted for the far side of the circular room, shifting quickly, mid-stride, wolf-human-wolf. It was tiring to do it so fast, especially when he was already tired from this madness. But the muzzle had dropped, so he spun around, sand flying about his paws, and lunged—!

_CRASH._

A brutal blow to the side of his face.

He staggered, struggled, and dropped. Pain radiated, nauseating, through his skull, but he climbed to his feet and again surged—!

_SMASH._

His rear legs skidded forward with inertia; he toppled over backward, tongue lolling. He could still see, but couldn’t make sense of what his eyes brought to his brain. Still, he knew: he must fight. So up, up, like a newborn colt. He trembled on uncertain legs, but there was no hope. The petite general stood behind him, and that wicked little blade was held to the soft spot beneath Alfred’s jaw. He felt it break his skin, heard the droplet of burning blood hit the sand, for that was how hushed it had become: the only sound was Alfred’s panting. He would not win against this hard-eyed Omega, that was the truth. Through his disorientation, he could see that there were only two outcomes: he would either be beaten to death, or he would serve, as Yao had said. _Escape?_ asked the hopeful and partially concussed voice in the back of his head. Even if he did escape, where would he go? Run back to the West? He wouldn’t even know how to begin. He was in way over his head, no training, no allies; there was nothing left to do.

He whined softly, the pure whistle of surrender, and the general relented. Continuing to whine, Alfred dropped down into a submission bow. Never had he done this, as a prince—chest digging into the sand, face turned to the side so one eye could view his superior while the other was closed against the floor.

The general regarded him for a long moment with his unreadable dark gaze. When he spoke, it was a bit louder than normal, firmer. “I’ve never met an Alpha with the education you have. Alphas here are given nothing. I don’t know if you can be tamed or not. We aren’t going to find out.”

Alfred had a hard time following this—his mind lagged behind, trying to figure out if Kiku had complimented him or not—but at the last phrase, he perked up. The fight could be knocked from him, but the hope could not.

The general stood up straight, combat stance abandoned. His voice ducked low once again. “You likely do not trust me yet, but you will learn to. Here, your allies will be few and far between. There is a hidden force here, seeking to overthrow the Emperor and bring about a new East, where Alphas and Omegas can live equally. Sounds familiar, yes?”

All at once, Alfred’s heart ached unbearably for his mother, for the birch grove. But there was something more, a certain fire that sparked inside him at mention of rebellion, revolution.

“You lack skill,” the general went on, “but you have brute strength and the will to try. Every little bit is useful to us. You will serve our cause, and if we win, you’ll be able to go home.” A pause, and Kiku’s face went cold. “Or, I can tame you, and you will never see your family and friends again.” Black eyes settled heavily on Alfred. “The choice is yours.”

Alfred shifted back to human form with a slow ripple, hampered by his exhaustion and the dull throbbing in his skull. He didn’t stand up to his full height, as it was higher than the general’s and seemed a dominant thing to do. Instead, he knelt on one knee, gazing up at him like a knight to his king. “I will fight for you.”

It took a second, but the Omega’s lips curled into a little smile. “Good. Now, get back on four legs. Unless I say so, you will be a wolf. Understood?”

Alfred inclined his head. It was probably immature, but that little smile made him feel such intense relief. It was a sign of humor, of humanity. Being allies was all well and good, but being friends was what made his heart feel safe. “Understood. But—can I ask you a question first?”

Rather impatient, the general nodded.

Alfred waited until he could be sure his voice would come out even. “Is there any hope of saving my brother?”

The general’s expression darkened, but there was sympathy in it if one searched hard enough. “There are scouts looking for him as we speak. We haven’t found any sign of his survival. If he is still alive and they bring him back, I will endeavor to protect him. But if he isn’t found . . .” He shook his head, and Alfred nodded, hanging his head in silence. “Shift now,” Kiku added, tone back to business once again.

Alfred obeyed, but before his mouth could become the long canine snout he asked, “What’s your name?”

“General Honda.” A pause, and the next words came just as matter-of-fact as the first. “But if I had a family, they would call me Kiku.” Then the conversation was over, because he returned Alfred’s muzzle and collar to the proper place, attached the lead, and escorted him out of the ring room. They went into another of the three doors, this one leading through to a room halved by a wall of wire mesh. Kiku opened a gate built into this partition, removed the demonic muzzle, and loosed Alfred into this oversize cage.

Inside, a group of twenty-odd Alphas, none of them older than Alfred, some much younger. Yearlings with puppy fuzz still clinging to their flanks, some with paws still clunkily big, all with large white-ringed eyes. When he stepped toward them, the nearest wolves stumbled backward, lifting sore paws and tucking tails between bruised legs. _Tamed,_ Alfred realized, the word like a cold stone in his belly. Was Kiku responsible for all this? Indirectly, at the orders of Yao, but still? Alfred thought of how many tamed Alphas he’d seen when they walked through the city. There was no way all those Alphas had been beaten by one Omega; how would Kiku have time for all that? Not to mention how large the East was, how many Alphas that would mean had to be tamed. It sickened Alfred to the tips of his claws.

Letting his tail hang loose, Alfred went around to each yearling, touching noses with them. He was almost twice the size of some of them; the smallest and meekest licked under his chin, so he nuzzled their ears until their tails waved shyly. When each Alpha had been greeted, he crossed to drink from a water trough against the back wall. Surprisingly, the water was nearly fresh, supplied that morning by the taste of it. Thirst quenched, Alfred lifted his head and sat down, regal despite the choke collar, the cage and gloom. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a faint smile on Kiku’s lips before he exited, closing the door and leaving them in darkness.

Alfred lay down, ignoring the unpleasantly rough hard-packed gravel beneath him. He’d slept in wolf form plenty of times for plenty of reasons, but never anywhere besides a soft mattress. He considered rising and circling a few times, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He doubted he’d be able to get to sleep here. Oh, if only he had his brother to snuggle. Matthew was so soft, always had been. He remembered curling up with his brother when they were both still round with baby fat; their father would laugh at Alfred for sucking Matthew’s thumb rather than his own. God, he wanted to go home . . .

A soft whimper broke through his thoughts. He turned to see—vaguely, with the thickness of the shadows—the yearlings creeping closer to him, some crawling on their bellies with their faces turned away from him, submission warring with their loneliness. Alfred gave a comforting yip, and the response was immediate: every young Alpha swarming him, writhing over each other to get as close as they possibly could to Alfred before curling themselves into tight balls of grey and black fluff. The nighttime was chilly, but in this huddle of body heat and puppy breath the Alphas were warm.

Lying in the quiet as they all drifted to sleep (and ignoring when he was promptly kicked in the side by a dreaming hunter), Alfred felt his heart go out to these poor young people. _Are they people?_ A cruel but appropriate thought. Were they thinking, and were they even capable of human thought anymore? Or were they just trapped within the raw instinctual world of their animal form? They lacked the dull-eyed look of the Alphas he had seen in the city, but perhaps that was only due to their youth. Alfred wondered, too, where their mothers were, and how old they were before they were ripped away from the milk. He gently nuzzled a pair of still-floppy ears before resting his chin on his paws. Sleep came, but not before he thought again of his mother, and Matthew. _Are you together? Should I join you?_

No. He knew that was the answer, without being told. _No._ His father might be, but he knew his mother wouldn’t be proud of him for passing up a fight, especially not one like this. He’d fight for them. It was about damned time he chose to do the right thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was watching 'Warriors' MAPs 'cause I'm a cool kid and I thought to myself - man I really wish I had a fantasy AU where the Hetalians are animals, that would be cool to write.
> 
> Then I thought - oh wait.
> 
> So here's some trash <3  
> (sorry for the delay i have no excuses x.x)

“And he threw down the tormentors from ramparts

And he cried, ‘Of no honor are you made!

To no code are you tied! Learn from this.

You will find worse ire in harming love

Than ever in harming pride.’

And only when from their clutches plucked his mate

Was the warrior truly fortified.”

_—excerpt from a classic Scandinavian story_

 

_BANG BANG BANG._

Alfred jerked awake, lifting his head and instinctively baring his teeth. All the forgotten horror returned in that instant: the shadowy caged room, the yearlings cowering around him, the Eastern Omegas currently bashing their cudgels together to wake up the imprisoned Alphas. Alfred recognized Kiku among the military-uniformed quartet; he was the only one not sneering.

They were fed. The Omegas walked among them, tossing down cuts of surprisingly good meat. Nothing that would be served in Francis’s castle, rest assured, but not the bones and gristle Alfred expected. There was some greedy snarling and snapping among a couple wolves, but a harsh word from the nearest Omega had them tucking their tails and meekly returning to their respective meals. No one interfered with Alfred; to his shock, a scrawny Alpha approached with a chorus of submissive whimpers and dropped half of his meat.

Alfred marveled at this. How old was this person, truly? _Yearling_ referred more to physicality than age; it could translate to anything between six and sixteen years old, depending how quickly one matured. Alfred had abandoned his thin legs and oversize paws and ears by his twelveth year. He couldn’t imagine his twelve-year-old self in a situation like this, without his father and brother to support him. He was just a child. _These are just children._

And in the eyes of their captors, they were just animals.

Alfred nudged the meat back to the young Alpha until it was taken back. He licked blood from his lips and lifted his head. Kiku was watching him. Oh, how he wanted to throw himself at the Omega, thrash him until some emotion came into those unreadable eyes. No one at home would dare to keep information from a prince—except a king, probably. There was a bitter irony, one it wasn’t in his nature to fully appreciate. The perks of princehood he would readily take, but none of the responsibility. _So much for perks,_ he thought as another Omega grabbed his collar. _I wouldn’t be here, if I wasn’t a prince._

Then again, that wasn’t entirely true. Ludwig was no prince, and yet he was lost among all this, too. Perhaps the captain would be put into this cage with him, once he was healed and tamed (the thought of the strong Alpha succumbing to the cruel choke collar was a blade through Alfred’s heart). But no, they probably wouldn’t do something like that. Even if they were seen as animals, Alfred doubted they would put two Westerners in the same room. The scrap of familiarity seemed too kind of them to provide.

Once they’d finished eating, the eldest Alphas were trussed in muzzles and attached to each other in a line with a lead of surprisingly heavy chain. A quarter of the yearlings remained, the smallest and youngest, to whimper in the corner while the others were led away. Alfred spared a glance back; the underfed pup was among them. Did those helpless, white-ringed eyes not haunt Kiku? How could he go along with all this, secret revolutionary or not? He was a general, he had power. _Fight back!_

Outside provided sunlight and fresh air, soothing Alfred a little. Nice to escape the thick scent of fear permeating the row of stone buildings—buildings from which more Omegas were leading more lines of chained Alphas. Alfred reckoned no less than sixty wolves were in their company. All of them were more or less Alfred’s age, not that that afforded much consolation. Slavery was slavery, regardless of age or innocence.

These taming houses were set apart from the city by a considerable margin. Alfred wondered if the majority of the populace even knew what Alphas were put through to become such obedient servants. Fed propaganda, perhaps? Or simply indifferent to the truth? Only the vegetarians in the West’s capital really cared if mules were whipped, after all. Beasts of burden were not supposed to live in luxury.

The smells and sounds of the city were no longer new to Alfred, but the sight of Alphas with parcels strapped to their backs still made him look twice. In his home, the wolf form was for hunting, traveling, and battle. Noble purposes, proving oneself, providing for one’s pack. This was such a travesty, he could not have spoken even if he had the proper tongue and teeth for it.

They didn’t walk far once they’d breached the urban limits, but that didn’t matter. It was impossible not to notice the parade of wolves, and in turn impossible not to notice Alfred among them. Several young Omegas pointed, laughed raucously, and began peculiar mimes: carving their hands through the air as if stroking a large bulge around their necks. Alfred realized with a shot of mortification that they were mocking his ruff, and no doubt his fur as well; he was a speck of gold among inky black pelts, and stuck out like a sore, fluffy thumb.

 _How dare you?_ Who would ever look at a wolf like him—young and in need of training, sure, and entirely indebted to his father for the luxurious sparkle of his thick coat, but still mighty in his own right, damn it—and _laugh_? For a second he wondered why he hadn’t received this attention yesterday, but then remembered he’d been walking with Kiku by himself; no one would dare point and laugh at a military leader, in the East, West, or North (unless it was Mathias, who encouraged such things). Alfred wanted to whirl round, yank on the chain even if it choked him, and roar at those ignorant young Omegas. But he didn’t. Kiku was his only hope of getting out of here, and he’d told him to be a wolf unless otherwise instructed—and here, wolves were meek. So he forced himself to keep his head down and trudge along in line with the others.

Their journey ended in a small, open-air arena of sorts. Rows of seats at staggered heights overlooked a circular stage with a raised block at its center. _That looks like . . ._ Alfred’s heart sank. _An auction block._

Sure enough, once most of the seats had been filled with fine-dressed, mostly older Omegas, the first Alpha was unleashed and roughly shepherded onto the block. Alfred watched the Omegas lean to comment to each other, all of them with the same haughty, appraising look on their faces. It sickened him to watch younger Omegas—assistants, he assumed—go up to fondle the Alphas, pulling on their ears, pressing the pads of their feet, speaking harshly to see the expected cower in response. He saw no money changing hands, and he wondered who was getting paid for all this. Then he realized he’d lost sight of Kiku, and in the same moment he was being released from the chain and led up onto the block.

This was nothing compared to the Omegas in the streets. Watching those old, rich Omegas in their expensive robes lose themselves to hilarity at the sight of his creamy coat and bright blue eyes—fury burned through him, and it was all he could do to keep from growling. He bowed his head and stared down at the claw marks in the wood of the block. Imagined similar claw marks in the soft skin of those Omegas.

A brief, startling thought: _Would my mother be ashamed of me for wanting to hit Omegas?_

No. Arthur believed in equality between Alphas and Omegas. Which meant if someone was evil, they deserved to be punished. Nothing else mattered.

Bids flew from all directions in languages Alfred couldn’t understand. They went on and on, more attention than any other Alpha had garnered. He wondered if that was because of his size or just the novelty of his appearance. Morbid curiosity had him wondering how much he was worth, in the eyes of the East. It occurred to him now that Kiku hadn’t mentioned any details of what Alfred was expected to do in aiding the fight against the emperor; one of these Omegas was going to buy him, appalling as it was to consider, and how long was he going to have to live with them before he got to go home? _If I do get to go home,_ he thought. No one said Kiku’s plans were foolproof. Who knew, maybe the general was totally deluded and Alfred was cursed to not only serve here for the rest of his life, but to do it with human awareness. A whole new level of fear chilled his heart.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the cacophony, and Alfred looked up to see Yao flowing down to the stage, despicably elegant, with Kiku trailing behind him. Alfred couldn’t help but be biased toward Kiku, even without the politics. Yao’s smooth queue and bright robes reminded Alfred of the deep purple cape Francis insisted on wearing and the flowing waves of hair that nearly reached his father’s shoulders at their longest; Alfred much preferred the smart, utilitarian style of Kiku’s cropped hair and dark uniform.

The audience tittered quietly in the background while Yao stepped up to Alfred. Even with the added height of the block, Yao was still taller and leaned down presently to inspect Alfred’s teeth and gums, which Kiku bared for him by peeling back Alfred’s lips. Yao hummed thoughtfully, circling Alfred slow enough that he heard the soft swish of the silk of his robes. Yao turned his back to confer with the Omega acting auctioneer, and Alfred wished he could just leap onto the emperor and tear out his throat then and there. What would happen, he wondered? Killing a figurehead wasn’t the way to change a nation’s mind. Did Kiku intend to convert Yao to their side? Somehow Alfred doubted that was possible, and immediately he wondered if that was unfair. _Did you think these things, Mother?_

The auctioneer gave a deep, respectful bow to Yao, who turned back to Alfred now, a smirk on his lips as he spoke in English for the first time: “Not so heroic now, are we, little dog?”

Alfred stared straight ahead, thinking some words that would have gotten him a sound cuff at home.

Kiku attached a lead to Alfred’s collar, which Yao snatched from his hand. “Come along, now, pet prince.”

Alfred stood fast, even when Yao tugged on the lead and that damned collar ground into his skin. That Omega wasn’t stronger than him. If it was a battle of bodies, there would be no contest. The emperor’s only hope at that point would be to fly away, and even then—what goes up must come down.

Yao’s expression hardened, and Alfred avoided his gaze because he knew the anger in his eyes would be a dead giveaway. Yao stared at him for what felt like years before saying slowly, “I think, before we leave, we should inspect this Alpha’s human form as well. We wouldn’t want to purchase something deformed.”

Alfred nearly winced at the word, a word no one in the West could let slip—especially not Alphas—without feeling the need to apologize to their deceased Queen and his cause. Had Yao chosen that word on purpose? And why was he speaking English? Alfred had yet to hear a single English word spoken from anyone but the emperor and the general. Was he doing it just to mock Alfred? Or did he know?

Kiku was shaking his head. “He has not yet begun that training.”

Yao waved it off. “He doesn’t need training for this. This is what he was made for. Shift. Now.”

The order was firmer than anything Ludwig shouted at his guardsmen or Francis told Alfred to do when he broke castle rules. Alfred knew better than to challenge it. He shifted, his muzzle falling forward to rest on his chest, the weight of the collar immediately tightening its links around his neck once again. He was still in the clothing he’d been wearing on the train, and if his father was here he’d scold him for being down on his knees in such fine trousers. But Yao was still holding tight on the lead, so there was no way he could stand without strangling himself. He remained on all fours while Kiku stepped to his side—and put his hand between Alfred’s legs. He jolted, looking over his shoulder in alarm. Kiku unbuttoned his trousers and stared at him with that dark, adamantine gaze. An assertion of dominance, and a clear message: _Do not fuck this up._

Then Kiku’s hand was on him, pulling him. No Omega had ever touched him like this, but thankfully his instinctive response was to yelp like a wolf anyway. The friction hurt a bit at first, but that quickly gave way to pleasure as Kiku’s hand jerked up and down, up and down. His ears and chest were burning; was that a natural reaction? How the hell was he supposed to know how to react, here? He stifled most of his noises and made wolfish the ones he couldn’t keep silent, and he tried to pay attention to the logical voice in his head that told him he should positively loathe this because it was dehumanizing. But Kiku’s small, warm fingers felt so much better than his own hand . . .

“Stop,” Yao said abruptly.

Kiku obeyed, and the absence of warmth drew a long whine from Alfred’s throat. The shame of that desperate sound made him want to close his eyes, but no wolf closed his eyes except to sleep. So he stared into the middle distance, letting his eyes blur to ignore the rich Omegas watching this display with only vague interest, feeling the _ache_ for denied release. He wanted to come, but all at once he promised himself he would _not_ come in front of these people. He would not be their exhibition; he would not be something they could point at and comment about the stud’s fertility like any piece of livestock. He would keep that much dignity. The flaring defiance almost had an adverse effect, but he focused. Thought of flowers, clouds, birch trees, the sun setting behind the silhouette of the castle. Pure things.

Yao observed his painful shivers for a long moment. Then, satisfied, he ordered, “Shift.”

The transformation was more shudder than ripple this time, uncomfortable for countless reasons, least of all because Yao didn’t allow appropriate slack on the lead and Alfred’s collar squeezed his windpipe and he hacked until Kiku reached up to adjust it—and to return the muzzle to his snout, of course.

“Come along,” Yao said again, and this time Alfred dropped from the block without protest. As they stepped away from the stage, Alfred heard the bids start up for the next Alpha in line. So many wolves. So many chains. As Alfred walked on the leash between Yao and Kiku, and passersby bowed their heads and even entire upper halves in respect, he kept his tail tucked and his ears flattened. His skin itched, ashamed to house him.

If there was a bright side, it would be this: he no longer had to fake his humiliation.

 

. . .

 

When the white wolf didn’t immediately savage him, Matthew decided the best course of action would be to introduce himself. It was a mixture of growing up never having to tell anyone what his name was and a compelling curiosity about his sudden savior that made him ask first, “What’s your name?”

He expected to see the Alpha ripple from wolf to human, but his guardian remained lupine, staring at him.

Matthew blushed lightly. _Don’t assume someone speaks English._ “Can you understand me?”

The wolf inclined his head a little.

“Was that a nod?”

Another inclination, and still that unwavering crimson stare, watching him intently.

Matthew couldn’t help but feel silly, talking to someone in animal form. It was often considered impolite to remain furred or feathered when someone addressed you, even if you didn’t need to respond. As a prince especially—sorry, as a king especially—it was a tad ludicrous to watch this Alpha’s human gestures subverted by the constraints of the wolf body. It felt vaguely rude, but he asked it anyway: “Can you shift?”

Slow movement of the head, from left to right and back again.

Matthew assumed this meant the Alpha was incapable, not that he simply didn’t want to. _That_ would most definitely be ludicrous. He’d heard of the elderly losing the ability to assume animal form (in much the same way they lost their ability to do jumping jacks), and he supposed it could work in the reverse, but this wolf didn’t seem frail. Far from it, in fact. His muzzle was silver, yes, but so was the rest of him. _How strange._

“Well . . . do you know why you can’t shift?” Matthew asked. “When was the last time you did it?”

The white wolf cocked his head, ears flattened out to the sides. It was a goofy expression, and Matthew was pleasantly surprised to feel giggles bubbling up. “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to compose himself. “I wasn’t laughing at you. You just look—well, cute.”

Which wasn’t something he would ever normally say to an Alpha, and the reaction—jerk of the head, ears pinned back in alarm—was precisely why, but Matthew was laughing again. “No offense. You’re not cute all the time. Your eyes are intimidating. And you’re very strong.”

As these unbridled thoughts flowed from his lips, he wondered if perhaps he was going a bit crazy from the stressful solitude. Of course, he wasn’t alone anymore; perhaps it was just relief that he had someone on his side, at last, that was making him feel so lighthearted. (That, and the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything but berries in the past few days. He admitted to slight insanity from lack of pancakes for breakfast.) Abruptly, he realized he had yet to acknowledge the fact that there was a dead wolf hidden in the bushes a few feet away from them and the cause of that death.

“Thank you,” he said, looking into the Alpha’s eyes to give vehemence to his gratitude, “for saving me.”

The white wolf just watched him without any change of expression. Matthew wished he could read those predatory eyes. They did have some emotion in them—they were not the empty, _hungry_ eyes of the Alphas on the train—but it was indecipherable to Matthew for the most part.

He recalled his botched introductions. He wouldn’t ask this to anyone else, for fear of seeming pompous, but he didn’t feel the need for such filtering here. “Do you know who I am?”

The Alpha inclined his head, then cocked it.

“Is that a yes? Or a maybe?”

The wolf opened his mouth, revealing yellowed teeth and a soft pink tongue. Matthew first thought it was the beginnings of a yawn, but when the jaw worked he thought perhaps the wolf was trying to speak, a theory confirmed with a low _“Rowrrrr”_ from the wolf before he flumped down onto his haunches, irritated.

Matthew stifled a smile. “Well, I’ll tell you my name and then it’ll be a yes for sure.” He took a breath, because despite practising alone in the bath he still couldn’t say his full title without it sounding fallacious. “I’m Matthew Bonnefoy, King of Western Eurasia.”

The effect was instantaneous. The white wolf came alive, hopping up and prancing around Matthew before nudging his nose into Matthew’s unhurt hand, licking his fingers and whimpering excitedly.

Matthew _had_ to smile at that. “If that’s a congratulations, thank you. Did you know my father? He’s still alive, don’t worry, just retired.”

As quickly as it came, the puppylike joy vanished. The Alpha’s wagging tail fell still. His eyes were still bright, but in a different way now. With the juxtaposition, Matthew felt fairly confident: what came before was happiness, and now this was pain.

Quietly, Matthew asked, “Did you live in the West?”

Just a slight nod.

“But you left. Why?” People didn’t just leave, and if they did, they went north. Surely this big, pale wolf would have been better suited to Scandinavia. Unless he had left not because he was free to go, but the opposite . . . “Did you have to?”

The wolf’s head lowered further with a whimper.

Matthew could only think of one reason why someone would be forced to flee east. “Were you exiled?”

The wolf dropped into a submission bow, tail tucked between his rear legs, and pawed at his muzzle in abject frustration.

Matthew was beginning to wonder if his relief had been misplaced, but none of this changed that this Alpha had saved his life. Besides, he couldn’t be judged until the full truth was known. So Matthew asked, “Was it during the Promega movement?”

Many—not the majority, of course, but a good number—Alphas who didn’t support equality had jumped ship after Francis made his famous speech. The first weeks, and indeed the first year, after the equality laws were passed had been a rough time in Western Eurasia. Matthew didn’t remember it, but he knew the stories: the spike in assaults on Omegas, the vandalism of any homes without Alpha residents, whispers of a group of Alphas who planned to overthrow the king (who had only recently regained power from the last time that happened). But time smoothed everything, no matter how rough. Things were better now for Omegas than they’d ever been. Many citizens had moved on to new movements—the politically correct language of Betas and Gammas, vegetarianism, et cetera—but Matthew still thought there was more to do with the Promega idea. He felt it was used too often to demonize Alphas, particularly those who had been around before the laws were passed. What he wanted was forgiveness. _Forgive, but don’t forget._

“Do you regret what you did?” Matthew asked. It was inevitable; no Alpha from back then hadn’t struck an Omega at least once. (Ludwig hadn’t, actually, but he was the exception not the rule.)

The white wolf ground his face into the dusty earth, flattening his body to the ground with his tail shoved firmly between his legs. His ears could get no flatter. His paws nearly covered his face. The pitiful whine that whistled from him was no sound that should ever come from such a powerful Alpha; it was almost perverse to watch his robust frame aquiver with contrition.

Matthew watched the wolf abase himself for a moment, intrigued. Then he said, “I’ll take that as a yes. And since you saved me, you must have changed your mind since then, right? You must think Omegas are worth something, after all?”

The white wolf crawled forward, belly fur dragging in a way that was sure to leave him full of dirt, and licked Matthew’s hand. Matthew gently touched the wolf’s muzzle, avoiding the fur that had dried blood on it. “Then there’s no need to hate yourself for your mistakes. No one’s perfect; it’s whether you can change yourself for the better that matters. But there’s no use in regretting things. We can’t live in the past forever.”

The Alpha hesitated, then bowed his head so Matthew’s hand rested atop his skull, between his ears. The pose reminded Matthew of the Royal Guard when they knelt with heads bowed before their swords to accept their duty of protecting the king and his family. That train of thought—along with a sharp stab of homesickness—reminded him of Ludwig, which reminded him of Alfred, which reminded him of his mission. “Listen to me, please. My brother, Prince Alfred, is in danger. I need to get to the emperor, as soon as possible.”

A small whine scraped the wolf’s throat as he rose up, hackles bristling in agitation.

“Do you know Emperor Yao?”

The Alpha shook himself so hard he sneezed.

Matthew couldn’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “Can you guide me to the palace?”

The wolf stared at him for a long moment. Then he bowed his head, eyes closed. _I can._

_For you._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, we'll get there, folks.  
> xo

“Those of other, lesser nations speak often

of the innate bravery of the Alpha.

I scorn this.

From birth, they are armed with tooth and claw;

what fear should they have?

It is in Omegas you find true courage:

To be of hollow bones and thin feathers made

and overpower still all the beasts of the world.”

_—Emperor Yao Wang, The Compendium_

  


So far, aside from the obvious negativities surrounding Alfred’s imprisonment, the worst part was the floors of the palace. Everything was covered in a shiny polished layer of marble and glaze, and thus each step was a roll of the dice as to whether or not his paws would slip out from beneath him. He almost wondered if it was done purposefully, because it would be just like these people to design a floor that would snatch the confident stride so typical to Alphas. He was forced to walk with stunted, awkward steps while Kiku led him through the wide palace halls. Alfred knew he should’ve been paying attention to where everything was, knew Ludwig would be memorizing paths and marking exits, but he was too overwhelmed for that. Nothing was familiar; he forgot it all as soon as it came into his head, because there was always something new to replace it. Everywhere he looked his eyes were filled with scarlet and gold, endless paper lanterns and braided tassels and wooden panels carved with serpentine dragons, birds, and fish. Not that he wasn’t used to luxurious decor, after growing up in a castle, but nothing was bright as fresh blood there, and the only carvings on offer were of graceful horses or dainty lilies.

The first day in his new captivity, General Honda led him down oddly broad stone steps to a lower level. Alfred shouldn’t have been surprised; the castle servants who lacked their own homes lived belowstairs, as well. Out of sight, out of mind. Alfred wondered if there was a dungeon here, too, cells of iron bars and damp straw. Similar to the castle, the lower they went the less effort had been put into appearances, but unlike the sconces that burned torches at home, here there were statues of faceless men emerging from the walls to hold out cupped hands, on the palms of which rested candles. Wax dripped between stone fingers. Shadows stretched from pillar to pillar. Alfred despised how open all these halls were, like a giant had scooped them out with a trowel in one go. He had nowhere to hide. But he was already hiding, just in plain sight.

Yao had handed the lead to Kiku as soon as they crossed the palace threshold. Whatever orders he gave weren’t in English, which left Alfred doubly confused. Did he suspect Alfred wasn’t brainwashed like all other wolves in this cursed place? Wouldn’t he just kill him, if that was the case? And, for that matter, why would Yao bring Alfred and Ludwig all the way to the palace, then have him brought out to that taming kennel with the others? Why go through the performance of the auction?

 _So no one knows I’m here because of him._ That was the only justification Alfred could think of. Or maybe the emperor was just out of his damned mind. Could anyone capable of leading a nation like this be called sane? _Did people say Francis was crazy before the Promegas?_

At last they stopped in front of a stone doorway. No door to speak of, just the naked stone carved into a crude rectangle. Even the kennels were nicer than this. Inside was a bit more hospitable; the floor was covered by an uneven grid of peculiar woven mats that filled the room with the joltingly pleasant scent of old grass. Alfred didn’t duck his head to properly sniff the floor, though. His attention was stolen by the two Alphas.

Both were dark brown, nearly black. The larger had brown eyes, but the other— _green._ At last, a snatch of familiarity. A good omen, perhaps? He let himself think of that faint memory of green eyes, just for a heartbeat. _Can you see me, Mum?_ Then back to business. He couldn’t afford to slip into weakness, emotional or otherwise. He’d thought he’d known what it meant to keep your guard up at all times—he was a prince, someone could leap out and harm him at any moment—but this was a whole new sensation. He almost _ached_ with alertness, and yet he felt like he had tunnel vision, too frightened to properly take things in. How did Ludwig and his guardsmen stay so steady?

Kiku leaned to look both ways in the hall, then murmured, “Shift. Not you, Heracles.”

The green-eyed Alpha inclined his head, rising from where he was seated to sit in the doorway, ears twitching and swiveling. Bizarre. He was big, but not muscled like the soldier-type wolves who had torn into Ludwig. Was everyone so suffocatingly disciplined here?

The other Alpha crossed his legs once they had become human, though it was difficult to see beneath his robe. So far Kiku’s uniform of defined trousers and coat were a rarity here. _Francis would fit in with all his capes._ All Alfred could see of the man’s face was the stubbled jaw and the humorless lips; the rest of his face was covered by a featureless white mask. The brown curls of his hair reminded Alfred of Antonio, which for whatever reason made him the most homesick of all these wandering thoughts. Antonio was the steadfast supporter of Francis through all trials and tribulations, but Alfred couldn’t imagine him remaining so calm if he was plunged into this situation. Maybe he wasn’t giving him enough credit, but Antonio seemed like the sort who was much braver when he had someone to stand by, to protect. Alfred had always felt more courageous when walking beside a quivering Matthew; only when Matthew began to shoulder the burdens of his station did Alfred feel lesser.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping, Alfred,” Kiku said, still in his low voice. Quiet like Matthew’s, but nowhere near as soft. “This chamber is for relief Alphas. Sadik and Heracles are used by the Omegas of the palace. Guards and cooks.”

“Emperor rarely uses Alphas twice,” Sadik said, with the bizarre emphasis of someone who rarely used a language.

Alfred clumsily sat with his legs crossed, mirroring the pose of Sadik and Kiku. He couldn’t be surprised to hear about _relief Alphas_ —he’d been inspected and sold as breeding stock, after all. Whatever Omega thought he’d be giving them relief had a surprise coming. “Is that what he got me for?”

“Most likely,” Kiku replied. “We have no idea who sired Li, Yao’s son. It’s possible Yao doesn’t know, either.” He fixed an emotionless gaze on Alfred. “The emperor is fond of sadism. I suspect he finds the idea of using a Western prince quite enticing.”

Alfred schooled his features. He refused to show any fear or disgust in front of these two Alphas, whose lives revolved around fucking Omegas they weren’t mated to. “So why aren’t you two like the other Alphas?”

“I didn’t tame them for the same reason I didn’t tame you,” Kiku said, with the intensity of a remark about the weather. “We are all part of the invisible resistance. There are other untamed Alphas out there, in different households of high-ranking Omegas. This has been an ongoing effort for years.”

 _Years._ That word alone had Alfred reeling. “Why is it taking so long? If you’re a general, doesn’t that mean you’re the head of the military here?”

Sadik’s brow furrowed. Kiku inclined his head slightly. “More or less.”

“Then why don’t you just rise up and overtake him? Revolt?”

Now Sadik was visibly glaring behind his mask. “Ignorant child—”

Kiku held up a hand sharply, gaze never leaving Alfred. “It may be that simple in the west, but here things run far deeper and traditions are far older. There is no way to win using brute force, because even if people are in submission they will still not change their minds.”

“Hard to change minds when they can’t think think for themselves,” Sadik muttered.

“You have the advantage of coming from a place where you are free to live as you please,” Kiku went on, hands clasped neatly in his lap.

Alfred realized he was the only one slouching and quickly straightened his spine. “Not exactly. Princes have to be on best behavior, you know. I’m not really allowed to do anything—”

Now they all glared at him, even Heracles from the doorway. Alfred ducked his head slightly. “Sorry.”

“Most Alphas here are kept in wolf form from the moment they are born,” Kiku said, in the same disapproving tone as Francis during a lecture. “They are not taught to speak, or read, or think for themselves. I’m sure you know of people who can no longer take on their animal form?”

“I’ve heard of it, yeah,” Alfred said in an undertone, gaze on the floor. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

“Well, they are brought up in such a way that they never _have it_ to begin with.” He raised one fine hand, gesturing lightly to Sadik. “Of course there are Alphas bought and trained to shift for breeding purposes, but other than that minority, Alphas are wolves and only wolves here. They are loyal to their masters, and beyond that loyal to our emperor. They do not understand rebellion, by design. If anyone was to attack Yao, they would be torn to pieces before they could even begin to change minds. Likewise, if we tried to start an uprising as you say and went to ‘war’ it would be for perhaps five or ten seconds before we were destroyed by both Omega soldiers and wolves.” Kiku’s solemn black eyes were fathomless in the shadowy chamber. “This is not your Promega war of wolves against wolves. This is a dozen people against an entire nation.”

If Alfred had a tail, it would be firmly tucked right now. “So . . .” he said meekly, “. . . you’re gonna assassinate him?”

“Yes. To put it simply. We are going to assassinate him.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. He’d wanted to be a guard, a soldier. He had never fancied being a spy. Sneaking around, lying through his teeth, wearing false faces. It wasn’t something he was good at; it was work far too subtle for his personality and ability. But this lot obviously knew what they were doing, if they’d been doing it this long without being caught. Suddenly Alfred was bowled over by the realization that he was a plain risk, leaving him untamed and unpredictable, a wild cog in the works of Kiku’s secret machine. He had a strong sense of independence and a large frame to build muscle upon, but other than that, was he actually valuable to Kiku’s cause? It seemed to him, foolish prince that he was, that Kiku had done it simply because it was the right thing to do.

And if Matthew was dead, the crown would fall to Alfred.

Alfred lifted his head, chilled and newly sober. “How can I help?”

Sadik curled his lip, but Kiku seemed faintly pleased. “For now, stay out of trouble and do exactly as you are told.”

“Sounds familiar,” Alfred muttered.

This time when the trio of glares came, he felt the pang of guilt true in his heart. He started to lift his hand in a salute, then changed course and placed his hands on the mat in front of him, bowing his head as low as it would go. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced up when Sadik grumbled something in a foreign language. “What does that mean?”

It was barely visible, but Kiku was smiling, or perhaps smirking. “Nothing,” he replied. “Shift.” Then, with a grateful stroke to Heracles’s head, the raven-haired Omega strode out.

Three wolves watched him go, each with different longing in their eyes.

 

. . .

 

Walking by himself had been monotonous and frightening, but it was neither of those things with the white wolf padding by his side. The wolf knew the forest well; he guided Matthew to streams and ponds when asked, and continuously supplied him with berries and other edible plantlife. He still felt the emptiness of hunger from the moment he woke to the moment he fell asleep—too used to endless breads and sweets, satisfyingly filling foods—but he was distracted from it by his new companion.

Matthew couldn’t tell if he was annoying the wolf or not with his chatter. He asked, once, but the only response was a grunt and he worried asking again would become the annoyance. Once he started talking, though, he found it difficult to stop. There was no pressure to only open his mouth for some intelligent observation or a well-wishing politeness; he could say whatever he wanted, which he used to feel around Alfred up until recently. It was more refreshing than the water, having someone willing to listen without judgement.

And so he talked about everything, from his worries about being king to his relationships with his family to his uncertainty about this endeavor to the east. “But it was my idea,” he fretted, steadying himself with a hand on the Alpha’s back while he stepped over a fallen log. “I could’ve said no, as the king. My word is the highest in the whole kingdom, but it doesn’t feel like it _should_ be. Maybe it was too good to be true, an offer of a merge between east and west. Maybe Yao only wanted to do it because there are people like the ones who attacked me. Who knows, maybe there’s some kind of civil war going on here. Have you heard anything like that?”

The white wolf flattened his ears, growling softly.

“Is that a yes? Nod if that was a yes.”

Red eyes stared, all of him motionless.

“Okay.” In all honesty, Matthew wasn’t certain it was a human trapped inside that wolf’s skin or if the Alpha’s sanity had crumbled away after so many years spent like this, in solitude. He didn’t want to ask; at best it was rude, at worst an invitation to rip his throat out. But surely someone crazy wouldn’t save him—and risk his own life in the process— for no reason? _Then again, that does sound pretty mad._

It was a bit of a hint when the wolf vanished one evening—long enough that Matthew genuinely wondered whether or not he was actually half-dead somewhere, hallucinating this guardian angel—only to return with something bloody clamped between his jaws. Matthew tried not to grimace at the haunch of what he suspected had once been a rabbit, dropped at his feet by the wolf who sat back and watched him expectantly.

“Um—thank you,” he said quickly, manners always a top priority. “I, uh, I appreciate that. But I can’t eat it without cooking it first. I don’t know how to make a fire, and even if I did . . .” He lowered his voice a little. “Do you think there are more wolves out there, looking for me?”

The white wolf cast around, ears pricked, then let out a low rumble, unsettled.

Matthew slowly nudged the meat away with his shoe. “Are there any apples or anything around here?”

The Alpha flicked one ear before turning and pawing at the air.

Matthew followed his gaze, but there was only more endless coniferous forest. Great trees and stones and a carpet of needles, that was what the world had become. “In that direction?”

A bow of confirmation.

“How far?” Alfred had been on many hunts throughout his life and spent the rest of his time gallivanting in the woods, but when Matthew ventured beyond the city limits it was always in a carriage or on horseback. He was rather impressed that his body hadn’t called it quits, not to invalidate the pain in his sore shins and feet. “A long way?”

The wolf shook himself, licked some blood from his muzzle.

Matthew spared a moment to think of a reversal of their roles, a stranded Alpha stuck talking to a wee savage dove. How would he communicate? Flaps? Coos? He’d be more or less useless; the trees were too tight-packed here to offer any opportunity for aerial scouting, which Matthew supposed was a good thing in case those evil Alphas had some evil Omegas on their side. Perhaps he wasn’t being generous enough, but he couldn’t really picture some red-eyed Alpha accepting the assistance of a muted bird.

“One day?” Matthew asked, because now that he had a potential end to this hunger headache he was incredibly invested in the specifics. _Patience, mon prince,_ Papa used to say. Matthew had listened. Alfred, not so much.

The wolf gave another rumble, which Matthew took to mean _more or less._ “Okay,” he said, choosing a girthy tree to sit down against. “That’s good to hear, because I need something more than berries. I never realized how much I ate until the food was gone. There was always something to snack on at home. Cookies and sweets, my favorite are the little maple sugar ones. And steaks, we had the best steaks, really juicy and tender.”

A low groan from the wolf.

“Sorry,” Matthew said, smiling apologetically. “You’re probably hungry, too.”

The Alpha lay down beside him, resting his chin on Matthew’s legs.

Matthew stroked his head. The fur was coarser than he expected—it had probably been quite a while since he had a bath—but the ears were soft as a lamb’s. It did occur to Matthew that this was a person, indeed a stranger, but he reasoned that emergency situations were a time to do away with the usual repressive hangups of societal interaction. It was selfish of him, but he hoped the lone wolf was just as starved for comforting touch as he was.

“Pancakes for breakfast,” Matthew whispered, “we always had the best pancakes. Papa liked them better thin, but the cook always made them nice and fluffy for me . . .”

A gentle tongue licked his hands. Matthew looked down at him and the crimson eyes were plaintive in the fading light.

“I know, I shouldn’t talk about them like I’ll never see them again. I’ll get home, right?”

The wolf lifted his head and whimpered softly.

Matthew tried to smile. “Will you come with us? If we get home?”

The Alpha stood, touched a damp nose to Matthew’s cheek, then carefully curled up across his lap. He was heavy, but not unpleasantly so; Matthew felt hidden, shielded. And, best of all: “You’re warm.” He sank his hands into the thick ruff, sighing quietly as he felt body heat radiate into him. “Thank you.”

The wolf sighed, too, eyes closing even when his ears stayed alert, listening for anything that might harm his charge.

_Good night._

 

. . .

 

Kiku was far from privy to Yao’s inner thoughts and motivations—as far as he knew, Yao had never trusted anyone enough to confide in them—but the emperor impressed upon him that Alfred was to be trained not only for breeding but for guarding as well. The palace had no shortage of guards, Alpha and Omega alike, but Kiku did not protest. For one thing, it was not his place, or anyone’s, to question the word of their mighty leader. For another, it was in everyone’s best interest for Alfred to have some combat skills. Kiku suspected Yao intended to use Alfred once for heat relief, for the taboo satisfaction of having sex with a Western royal, then keep him on as a guard just for the sake of having an exotic Alpha in his collection.

It was rare, but different pelt colors did occur, as evidenced by Sadik and Heracles. Some Omegas scorned this, but others enjoyed standing out from the crowd—in more ways than one. Privately, Kiku was glad Yao had waited until spring arrived to bring Alfred and Matthew to the East. Many Omegas were looking forward to winter’s return only so they could wear their fur coats again; the bourgeois wore mink, but Yao’s aristocratic ilk wore wolf.

Kiku had trained many, many Alphas over the years, for several purposes. It was where he’d gotten his start; in a way, he owed the wolves his successful rise through the ranks, and so it was only fair that he try to free them in return. These days he only trained Yao’s personal Alphas and any deemed by the small community of high-class tamers as _hard cases._ (Kiku’s uniform hid multiple scars on his arms and legs, a slash in his side when he’d gotten careless. They were old scars, however, aged so they were nearly invisible against his pale skin. He had long ago abandoned carelessness.) It was only because Alfred was tapped by Yao that Kiku had gone to the kennel and then to the auction; he preferred to make himself scarce from those places, because they sickened him and only returned memories he’d rather not dwell on. The palace Alphas were trained in the courtyard, and so Kiku led Alfred there each morning, long before Yao or Li woke. Still, they must not act out of their roles. Eyes could be anywhere.

The first day, Alfred practically quivered with excitement at the concept of training. Kiku had no idea why—as an Alpha and the child of a monarch, surely he’d been given fancy swordsmanship lessons at the very least—but it didn’t take long for it to fade. They were in the guise that Alfred was an animal, and so Kiku had to treat him as one. He kept his face blank of expression and his voice only firm and authoritative. His gestures were only to accentuate orders, all of which were in Japanese. Those blue eyes—so bright Kiku thought they looked painful sometimes—were clearly wounded by this treatment, which surprised Kiku. Alfred had been assaulted, kidnapped, chained, tossed in a cage, and publicly masturbated—which Kiku hadn’t done in a significant amount of time, so the feeling of Alfred’s hot flesh in his palm lingered longer than Kiku would’ve liked—and yet all of that had only produced anger in him. Now, Kiku was putting him through _sit, stay, heel, shift_ which could only be described as torture for how boring it was, and the Western Alpha was sad? _Poor little prince._ But there was a scrap of genuine sympathy in Kiku, even though he didn’t let it show. Wolves were pack animals, so it was natural for them to long for socialization, but there was a bit more to it as well. It was just nice that Alfred was so used to friendly tones and physical affection. Pleasant to think of a place where wolves, _people,_ were so loved.

At the end of their first morning of training, Kiku gave Alfred’s head a brief stroke and said, “Good.”

Blue eyes sparkled, ears perked, and the tail became a golden blur of joy. Kiku had to signal sharply. _Be still._ It wouldn’t do for any passing servant or guard to think he was encouraging bad behavior. Alphas were not supposed to show emotion, make any sound, or indeed move at all unless told to. In fact, the tail was considered so nebulous that they had begun docking them in some places, particularly Alphas put to work hauling sledges or ploughs. Those, at least, did not translate to the human form, but Kiku dreaded to think what would happen if they began clipping the ears of Alphas bred for fighting.

Kiku knew it was difficult for Alfred, but the prince should have considered himself extremely lucky that Yao favored personal sadism and manipulation over cold carelessness for the wolves. Despite his youth, Alfred was big and brawny; he could be toiling under a whip right now, hauling loads until his legs gave out and he was left to die on the side of the track.

Once the pleasantries were over, they got into detainment training. This was more stimulating for both of them; either Kiku or Sadik wore a thick, padded leather sleeve on one arm and Alfred had the honor of hurling himself at them and tearing into them on the ground. Kiku was worried Alfred would be hesitant to hurt him and not act as savagely as needed, but more than once he had to shove his fingers into the sensitive space beneath Alfred’s jaw to prompt release. Both Sadik and Heracles—lounging on the sunny steps to observe the more physical training on the pretense of protecting Kiku—bristled at this. Kiku saw it as an encouraging sign. Perhaps there was something savage in the shallow son of royalty, after all.

Sparring was done both in public and private. In wolf form, Alfred and Sadik were set upon each other again and again, Alfred pretending to be riled into aggression and Sadik pretending to fight him off. Kiku’s tone controlled the tempo and severity of their attacks; the emperor would not have wolves with torn ears and scarred muzzles in his palace, and though it was mostly for show Kiku was occasionally concerned the Alphas would truly harm each other. Alfred had a strain of cockiness to him, a need to prove himself, and Sadik was more inclined to trounce than tolerate.

Within the Alphas’ private chamber, with Heracles or Sadik posted to keep watch, they practised human hand-to-hand. This they had less opportunity to hone, as it could only be done during Kiku’s free time and he had precious little of it between the wolf training and his various managerial responsibilities. (Borders must be secured, promotions must be approved, and so on.) Kiku had trained both Sadik and Heracles in this art, but Alfred’s quickly proved to be by far the most entertaining. When Kiku announced it, the first time, Alfred broke out in a broad grin.

 _“Goddamn it!”_ Alfred pushed himself to a sitting position after being thrown to the ground for the tenth time in as many minutes. “How do you _do_ that?”

Kiku hid both his pleasure and his breathlessness. Military skill or not, Alfred still had a good thirty pounds on him. Briefly, Kiku was relieved Alfred had been the one chosen by the emperor rather than the Royal Guard Alpha—Ludwig Beilschmidt, according to Alfred—who would have been like fighting a mountain. But then, he was already adept at fighting, though not in the Eastern styles. He’d done poorly against the Alphas on the train, who had been punished for the brutality of their assault. Kiku was unsurprised it had gone the way it did. When Alphas were controlled like animals, how could they be expected to understand the nuanced expectations of a human? Yao had wanted it to _look_ like they were being attacked on the train, but the Alphas weren’t to seriously harm. Impossible to fully control that; the fact that Matthew, the entire point of the exercise, had escaped was proof enough that if you wanted things done right, you had to do them yourself.

Yao had denied Kiku the opportunity, when he offered to go along. Kiku was still tormented by this. It could have been that Yao did not want to risk his general, or didn’t think such work was important enough for him. Or, he could suspect Kiku was up to something suspicious and wanted to keep him within eyeshot.

 _I would be dead by now if he thought I was a traitor. Or tortured, at least._ Depressing when _that_ was a comforting thought.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Alfred cried, just short of a bratty whine. Sadik heard it, glancing over with his lip curled in disgust. The prince showed no sign of noticing; he was too busy having a tantrum on the floor. “ _Damn_ it. This is because my father never let me learn to fight. I’ve wanted to do it my whole life, and he always said no to me. If it were my choice, I’d already know all this stuff. All of this is his fault.”

Kiku applied a sharp smack to the side of his head. “Don’t blame your father for trying to protect you.”

Alfred leapt to his feet, prompting a growl from Sadik which silenced when Kiku held up a hand. His gaze didn’t leave Alfred’s; if this Alpha half his age meant to intimidate him with a glare, he would need to try harder than this.

“Ex _cuse_ me,” Alfred said, eyebrows spiking toward his hairline, “if I was protected I wouldn’t be here right now, dealing with you people.”

Kiku shook his head. “A prince lives a long, spoiled life. A soldier dies in mud and blood. He was protecting you from that life.”

Alfred threw up his hands. His collar jangled where it hung loose on his chest. “But I’m in that life now!”

“Yes, you are.” Kiku assumed a fighting stance again. “And complaining about the past will not help you now. You are a soldier.” He gave a slight bow, to indicate another round had begun. “Now fight like one.”

And, slowly but surely, he did. Over the following week, Kiku was genuinely impressed to see Alfred trade in his lack of self-confidence for a new, more still way of holding and conducting himself. He ceased relying on brute strength and instead learned to evade and parry. Agility did not come naturally to him—he was almost like an overgrown pup at times, tripping over his own paws in his haste to show Kiku what he was learning—but his determination to improve was his greatest asset. By the end of their week, Kiku shared the prince’s feelings about the old king’s reluctance to allow his son to fight. It was a waste, in truth. Alfred was a natural at this, to Sadik’s chagrin.

It was in the courtyard that Alfred finally triumphed against Sadik. Heracles was in his usual place on the steps, though he was sitting rather than lying about because Yao, too, was watching. Alfred had ‘learned’ not to bite hard enough to break the skin, and so Kiku only circled them, observing as Alfred and Sadik grappled with each other, tearing at each other’s ruffs and shoving shoulders into chests. They fell apart, then lunged together again, toppling over and over until at last they stopped, and it was Alfred standing over Sadik, jaws clamped just shy of harm around the other Alpha’s throat. All of them were frozen for a moment, realizing the reality of what had just occurred. The foreigner had just bested one of the emperor’s favored Alphas.

Yao crossed to them, robes flowing around his legs like waves of blood. Immediately Alfred and Sadik leapt apart, bowing as deeply as they could. Kiku, too, bent at the waist until Yao spoke: “This is good work, General.”

Kiku inclined his head again. “Thank you, sir.”

Yao leaned down to look into Alfred’s eyes. It was only a heartbeat, but it was clear that it took a moment for Alfred to look down, away, anywhere but the challenge of into the emperor’s gaze. Yao’s eyes hardened and he rose up again. “I think it’s time this Alpha truly joined our ranks.”

Kiku pushed his alarm deep down, well out of sight, as he realized what his leader was implying. “This hasn’t been done to house Alphas in decades—”

Yao whirled on him, robes flying like a stormy sea. “But it will be, now.”

Kiku dropped into a new bow. No matter how much he loathed Yao Wang, his cold voice still intimidated. “Of course. As you say, my Honorable Sovran.”

Sadik and Heracles shied away, ears flat and tails tucked between their legs. Alfred watched them, then looked to Kiku, ears perked curiously. Whether it was the feigned animal obliviousness or the real youthful naivety, those blue eyes sparked pain in Kiku’s chest.

 _He should know I can’t keep him completely safe,_ he reasoned. _He should know sacrifices must be made._

Yao retreated to the shade of the cloister, watching with his arms crossed over his chest and nothing but a cold satisfaction in his dark eyes. Despite the fact that the practise was relegated to guards and draft wolves, the palace was equipped with tools and staff to do this who could be summoned at any time. Kiku sent a servant to fetch them, and assisted by chaining Alfred to one of the smaller pillars surrounding the courtyard. Alfred didn’t struggle, but he stared up at Kiku, seeking answers. Kiku couldn’t spare him answers or mercy, just stood back so the crew could work.

All of them wore black masks—contrasting the white masks of the house servants and Alphas—and one wore a dark leather apron. Yao had evidently planned for this long before he announced it, because the aproned Omega held a branding iron glowing red-hot at the end. When the empty-handed Omegas tried to hold Alfred still, he jerked and whined sharply, fearful.

Behind Kiku, Yao spoke up: “I thought this wolf was trained.”

Kiku didn’t turn around, just stepped back over to Alfred and struck his muzzle soundly. Alfred fell silent, again looking up at Kiku with something just shy of betrayal in his eyes. Kiku stared right through it. This wasn’t his choice. If he had any say in the way things were here, none of this would happen.

Without hesitation, the aproned Omega pushed the branding iron against Alfred’s flank. Fur and flesh burned in the shape of symbols that the Alpha did not understand, proving he was no longer his own.

His howl was a scream.

 

. . .

 

Matthew’s chatter was interrupted by the white wolf freezing, head lifted to gaze into the distance, ears pricked. Matthew watched his hackles lift, horror so utter it showed through even on lupine features. “What’s wrong?”

_Settle down Alfred_

_Not as cute as Matthew_

_Punish his son_

_What’s wrong Neffe_

_Fight your war_

Terribly agitated, he ran in circles around Matthew, whining and yowling as if in pain and pawing at his muzzle as if it were stuck full of thorns. Matthew pleaded with him now: “Please, calm down, it’s okay!”

Antonio bellowing as his eye was ripped from his skull.

Francis wailing as he held his dead mate in his arms.

The fallen harrier shrieking in its death throes.

The innocent child, brought to the battlefield once again.

Matthew crouched and wrapped his uninjured arm around the wolf’s strong neck. “It’s okay.” For a split second Matthew feared the wolf would turn aggressive, but after a few strokes to his head he calmed, each breath coming with softer and softer whistles through his nose. It was a miserable sound, and it broke Matthew’s heart to hear it from such a strong, noble creature. “It’s alright.” He didn’t know what had set the Alpha off, but they hadn’t been attacked by anything, so for now at least: “It’s okay.”

The white wolf looked up at him, crimson eyes liquid with sorrow. Then he rested his head against Matthew’s chest, eyes closed, and heaved a gusty sigh. They had resumed their past roles once more.

He protected Matthew’s body, and in return Matthew kept safe his heart.


	7. Chapter 7

“The modern mind takes for granted many things.

The tamed beast, the farmed crop, the crafted tools.

As science advances in medicine and technique,

The old magick is abandoned.

I find it curious that so many will not blink

At taking flight or running with a hunt

Yet in the same breath scoff

That there are things our eyes can no longer see.”

_—Vladimir Popescu, The Hidden Forces of Eurasia_

 

The landscape became significantly hillier, which Matthew was quite unused to; the forest on to the northwest of the castle was more or less even ground, and the pasture land and moors that stretched in every other direction were flat aside from the odd gully or rock outcrop. Small mountains—large by Matthew’s standards, naturally, but in truth rather puny—rose up on either side as they descended. Gangly coniferous trees clung to the steep stone faces, and Matthew wondered if anyone else had ever seen this strange, beautiful place. He’d never experienced something so untouched. He was surprised at the lack of wildlife, but he supposed he was a guest in this strange land and had no idea how to look at it; likely there were several creatures watching him at any given time.

It was even likelier the lower they got. No sunlight reached the forest floor at the bottom of this valley; the warm air of above mixed with the cool below and created a thick layer of fog. As Matthew and the white wolf picked their way among the trunks of tall pines and other flat-leafed trees Matthew could not name, they both became increasingly wary of the poor visibility. Matthew kept close to the Alpha, who remained on edge, glaring all around them and swivelling his ears constantly. Matthew couldn’t hear anything and didn’t say anything now, either. Refreshing as it had been to speak his mind without fear of repercussion or interruption, he’d pretty much run out of things to say. And, something he’d tried in vain to ask Alfred about in the past, speaking for long periods of time exhausted him. Contrary to his half-brother’s belief, he did not have ease with words. Yes, he could write an acceptable speech, but to deliver it was to strain his vocal chords. He didn’t know where Alfred found the strength to speak at such volumes so effortlessly. Antonio too, and Mikkel, Ludwig, even Francis could shout with that solid voice so synonymous with Alphas in Matthew’s mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice and heard anything other than the cry of a child.

Presently Matthew stumbled over a tree root hidden beneath the thick grey mist. He still instinctively tried to throw out both arms to steady himself; pain burned through his slinged arm, which only intensified the nausea always present in his belly. The white wolf looked up at him with a concerned whimper and Matthew only managed a light smile before they carried on. Aside from cloaking obstacles, all the fog did was remind Matthew of the dreams he’d been having since meeting his guardian. Vague snatches of half-remembered past. White mist, red eyes. Perhaps he was dreaming of the wolf?

The breeze whispered around them, just hard enough to swirl the thick fog, but if there were words Matthew couldn’t understand them, just as he couldn’t understand the strange words in his dreams. Perhaps they weren’t words at all, just nonsensical sounds created by his mind, like the internal mumblings of a sleeptalker. Or maybe—

A wolf leapt out of the mist, black as night and snarling.

The white Alpha didn’t hesitate to attack, but this time the fight was far more subdued. The black wolf didn’t have the single-minded _kill_ savagery that the beasts on the train did. Rather, this wolf’s aggression fell away as soon as an opponent was presented, meekly scrabbling at the soil as the white wolf pinned him down and went in for a bite to the throat.

“No!” Matthew found himself saying. “Don’t kill him.”

Reluctantly, the white wolf relented. He backed off to stand between the Eastern Alpha and the Western Omega, growling.

The black wolf ducked down, pressing the side of his face into the damp earth, eyes rolling back in his head. It went beyond the posture of submission; this wolf was trembling so hard even his whine shook until it sounded like wind whistling through a cracked window.

Matthew edged forward as far as he dared. “Why are you so afraid? We won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt us.”

After a moment, the wolf’s ears lifted a little, a small perk of hope through the far.

Then something cut through the mist above them, so close Matthew could feel the cold air over his face and hear the swoop of feathered wings. Just as suddenly as he’d come, the black wolf fled, tail tucked between his legs, howling in terror.

The white wolf pressed close to Matthew’s legs, growling louder now. Matthew ducked down, hand on the rumbling, tensed shoulder before him. _Did they find me? Is this it?_

Birdsong peeled into the quiet, warbling that sounded almost amused to Matthew’s ears, and then a man stepped from the fog. Short and thin, this Omega, wearing woolen trousers and a sheepskin vest. He regarded them with keen reddish eyes—not nearly as intense as those of this Alpha—and upward-curled lips. “Who might you two be?”

His accent wasn’t familiar, but he certainly looked more western than not. Matthew rose slowly. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to go throwing his rank around, even if this was the middle of nowhere. Look at what got him here. “I’m Matthew.” A downward glance. “And this is my friend.”

This only seemed to further gladden the Omega. “Well, Matthew and friend, I am Vladimir.” He cocked his head to one side, unbothered when the movement prompted more growling. “And if you will forgive my spying eye, you look to me like you could use some help.”

The offer was so glorious after all this time spent walking alone and talking more or less to himself—protected, yes, but still relying on his own plans and knowledge and ability to go on _by himself_ —Matthew nearly dropped to his knees with relief. He still gushed out: “Oh, yes, we need help. I’ve been eating nothing but berries and plants and my arm is broken or at least fractured, I’m not sure, and my friend is stuck in wolf form, I don’t know why or how that happened, and there are wolves after us and . . .”

He realized, too late, that both Vladimir and the wolf were staring at him. Cheeks burning, Matthew ducked his chin. “I, um, we would be very grateful if you could give us some assistance.”

Vladimir broke into a grin that showed shockingly prominent canine teeth. “Come with me.”

 

. . .

 

Alfred was furious.

Never in his life had he known such rage. It was as if the heat from the branding iron had burned through his skin, singed his fur, boiled his blood and come to smolder in his bones. It had been building since someone dared to put a muzzle on him, and now it had nearly reached fever pitch. He didn’t let himself lose his temper, however. He hovered just on the line as if waiting to pounce, maim, kill. It was exhausting, but he refused to let it go.

He hadn’t shifted since it happened, not even when Kiku came to speak with them before curfew. He hadn’t spoken or communicated in any way, not even when Sadik and Heracles tried to comfort him. Sadik was coarser, as usual, but Heracles’s sympathetic gestures—sad smiles and ear nuzzles—went ignored. Neither of these Alphas had been branded, so they couldn’t understand. Not that they could understand, anyway; they’d been here all their lives, they had no concept of freedom. They didn’t know what he’d lost.

Arthur had died for what he believed in. Alfred was branded while trying to oppose this demonic place. He was supposed to be part of a rebellion, but he didn’t feel like much of a fighter. He felt like a slave, a pet, a piece of breeding stock and nothing more. Why should he even believe that Kiku would assassinate Yao? Alfred could die here after being used up by whatever Omegas felt like soothing themselves on his knot. Yao was manipulative, but maybe Kiku was too. Or just delusional. _How does he know we’ll win?_ Alfred wondered bitterly. _He doesn’t know anything. We don’t stand a chance._

Then, in the middle of the night, Kiku crept into the Alphas’ quarters. Alfred was curled up in the corner, as far from the others as he could get. He heard Kiku’s near-silent approach, but only when Kiku whispered his name did Alfred lift his head and glare through the shadows.

“I want you to come with me,” Kiku murmured. It was unusual for him to say _I want_ ; he gave orders or signaled commands, but he never made requests like this. When Alfred only stared, Kiku added, “Please. I want to take you to see something special. Somewhere free.”

Perhaps Kiku knew Alfred better than he thought, because that word would always appeal to him. Alfred reluctantly rose to his paws and followed Kiku out. He glimpsed Sadik watching, but the jealous glint to the eye Alfred had noticed the week before was no longer present. Alfred didn’t care either way. _You can have him if you want him._ Sure, Kiku was good-looking, but he barely knew him. They’d talked about little more than training and Yao’s regime. He had no idea what the general’s interests were, or anything at all about him. Sadik had to know him better. _I don’t care._

They didn’t take the usual route to the cursed marble halls. Instead, Kiku led him down a hall he’d never traversed and up a narrow set of stairs Alfred assumed was for servants. It took them outside, though Alfred couldn’t tell right away; they were on a little path with dirt walls on either side and soaring hedges blocking out the sky overhead. Kiku lifted a spray of branches so they could duck beneath them. Alfred turned and peered at it once the branch had fallen back into place, but he couldn’t see any hint of the hidden door beneath the leaves and the flowers.

“It’s not a secret,” Kiku told him. “It’s only where servants and lessers come and go. They are not permitted to use the main doors.”

 _Of course not,_ Alfred thought, but he couldn’t be too derisive because the castle he called home operated much the same way. The grand oak doors were not for just anyone to walk through. He felt homesickness well again in his chest and tried his best to devour it with anger.

“You may shift now,” said the general. Even without the firm tone, he still expected his words to be obeyed.

Alfred didn’t move. He preferred being in this form when he had such anger inside him. He felt good being able to snarl, bear his teeth, leap with power. Despite Kiku’s combat training, he still felt impotent in human form. He couldn’t speak with a wolf snout, but what did that matter? His opinion didn’t matter here, anyway.

“You won’t be able to go where I have planned in animal form,” Kiku said.

Alfred glared, but his natural curiosity was too enticed by this information, and so he shifted. The collar hanging on his neck was an annoyance before and had gone straight to intolerable. He ripped it off, links of chain jangling, and the sound of it combined with the scar of the brand rubbing against his clothes— _fury._

Kiku was watching him, without judgement. Alfred said, “I want to throw this damned thing.”

His voice had the same notes as Francis’s when he was angry at something Alfred had done. _You do not think before you act. You drive me mad. I don’t have the patience for this, Alfred. What did I ever do to deserve the attitude you give me?_

It almost brought tears to his eyes, for just a second.

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” Kiku said.

Alfred clenched his fist around the collar, fuming.

Kiku observed him, then only inclined his head. “Follow me.” He led the way along the endless perimeter of the palace and then—like nothing, like breathing, like magic—Kiku was walking up the wall. Alfred halted, shocked. Kiku was not wearing the boots Alfred associated with military; instead, he was in little shoes that were closer to slippers than anything else. They were much more flexible than anything Alfred had ever worn, easier to grip the small divots and raised areas of the palace walls. His hands gripped the lip of the overhanging roof and just like that he was up, easy as you please, and peering down at Alfred. The same old expectation raised his fine eyebrows.

“There’s no way I can do that,” Alfred said, short and hard.

“You never will,” Kiku confirmed, “if you think you can’t.”

Alfred scowled and clambered at the wall but, as predicted, got nowhere. “I’m too big and heavy.”

“No, you’re not.”

Alfred tried again and, after painfully scraping his fingernails against stone, punched the wall. He stifled a shout of outraged pain and fell to his knees, chain glinting like a silver snake skeleton in the grass. His knuckles throbbed, probably bled a bit too. He didn’t even want to go home. He’d be upset there, too. What if he got back and Matthew didn’t? _Francis would never forgive me. Nobody would._

Kiku climbed back down, infinitely more graceful, and knelt beside Alfred. His voice was rarely loud, but now it reached a new level of soft. “We all make sacrifices, Alfred.”

_If you say ‘that’s life’ I’m gonna scream._

Kiku picked up the collar gingerly enough that it didn’t jingle. “The spring equinox will be soon. There are festivities, nature ceremonies, a parade.” He gave a small sigh. “Every year, when Yao gives his speech to honor the east and I stand in my designated place at his side, I think of how simple it would be to reach out and slit his throat.”

Alfred stared at him.

Kiku didn’t lift his pensive gaze. “I can’t, of course. I would be executed and a regent would lead until Li is ready. Or they might just have him killed, too. There are several powerful Omegas I could easily see poisoning his food or pressing a pillow to his face. Li doesn’t have the strength of his mother.” After a long pause, he pulled up his sleeve to reveal scars on his pale skin. Bite marks, without question, but cleaner slices from blades too. “I wasn’t born into royalty like you or Li. My family is all dead and gone, so far as I can tell. I’ve searched, but.” His lips pressed together, brief but tight, before he continued. “Anyway. I grew up without blood family, in a far rougher place than this city. Alphas aren’t people there, either, but they aren’t tamed. They’re just animals. I was part of a pack, in a sense. Hungry ones tried to kill me, but I had a knife—and more importantly, I paid attention. I learned the way wolves work. By the time I was your age, I had twenty of them trained to protect and obey me. A job was offered, working in the kennels. I took it. It’s much simpler with wolves raised in captivity. My pack were too rough to work in houses. Some were sent to haul, and the rest were killed.” His brow was low on dark, sorrowful eyes as he finally regarded Alfred. “We all have scars. They show how strong we are.”

Alfred couldn’t meet his gaze any longer. The images swirling in his mind—a little Omega scrounging on the streets, galloping with a gang of feral Alphas, wolf corpses tossed onto the back of a wagon and carted away to some unmarked grave or pyre—had him closer to tears than memories of home.

“I don’t believe in keeping anger inside,” Kiku said, wrapping the choke collar around his wrist and then letting it slip off into a coiled pile. “It’s like an infected wound. Unless you clean it out, it will fester and poison you.”

Alfred shook his head. “You can’t tell me you’re not angry. Not after all that. I don’t believe you.”

“I have been angry, yes. And I never go a moment without thinking about what’s been taken from me.” His eyes sparked. “But I don’t let it guide my actions.” He hopped to his feet, entirely different from the smooth moves he normally pulled off. “If I try to climb this wall because I’m angry at it, I’ll get as far as you did. It’s not about believing your opponent should lose. It’s about believing you can win.”

“That’s the same thing,” Alfred said, slowly, with a silent _is it not?_ after.

“No. You can climb over this wall or you can tear it down. You get over it either way, but it’s a different world you’re left with.”

Of course, he was talking about their plans with Yao as well. They could make all the Omegas in the east suffer, but that was pointless when their goal was to save the Alphas and bring them to equality. Alfred pushed to his feet. “How did you get so wise? I never hear you say anything that isn’t, like, thought-out.”

Kiku’s brow lifted meaningfully. “You have to be wise to survive here. The emperor is wiser than I am.”

Alfred supposed that was true, with all his plans no one else knew about, but he didn’t like thinking it. He might doubt Kiku in moments of angst, but the reality was the general stood between Alfred and—well, god knew what. He needed him.

Kiku climbed back up the wall and offered a hand from the roof.

Alfred had to stare in surprise at this. A hundred times Kiku had knocked Alfred down in training and every single one of them he’d had to get back to his feet with the effort of his muscles and pride alone. But now he was offering help. Had something changed?

Alfred took a deep breath, hung the collar around his neck again, and threw himself at the wall. It took him a couple tries to figure out the proper momentum, and then it was up—up—up in bursts so quick he almost didn’t notice when the hand was no longer there. Alfred grabbed the lip of the roof and hauled himself up over it with a loud grunt of exertion. He rolled onto his back, biceps pulsing, and stared at Kiku. “You tricked me.”

Kiku wasn’t very good at hiding his smile, or maybe he just wasn’t trying. “No, I just gave you a goal you preferred more. You’re not as independent as you’d like to be.”

Alfred threw up his hands. “Yeah, well, nobody will let me be.” He let his hands flop onto his chest. “First my father and now Yao. I’ve never been allowed to do what I want.”

With his shoe, the Omega pushed Alfred’s hands away so he had a clear view of his face. “You’re in charge of yourself, Alfred. You control yourself above everyone else.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed. He wanted to say it wasn’t true—obviously, he was in chains here and he did not hold the key to unlock them—but at the end of the day, it was. He could choose to leap off this roof, if he really wanted an easy way out of this. He could choose to betray Kiku and tell Yao their plan, if he was foolish enough to actually believe he would be rewarded rather than brainwashed at best or killed at worst. His actions were his choice within the restraints of society and the world. Now, what he was fairly certain Kiku meant, Alfred was letting his anger control him.

Kiku rose to a crouch and Alfred followed him, unbalanced at times from the angle and the vertigo. They made their way round to overlook the courtyard, and then Kiku was climbing up again. The roof was made up of smaller and smaller lips the farther up it went until at last it apexed in a straight edge that spanned the length of the palace. Alfred struggled to balance on the thin line and settled on straddling it like a saddle while Kiku perched on the balls of his feet as if he was on safe ground, totally at ease.

Once he was certain he wasn’t going to fall, Alfred took in the view. Even at this ungodly hour in the morning, there were golden lights in the distant city. It reminded Alfred of dragons, so many sharp curves like wings and claws and amber lanterns like hungry eyes. Such a contrast to the cozy squares and obtuse angles of the west. Alfred wondered if he would be able to see the kennels, the train tracks, the distant mountains if it wasn’t so dark. The moon was out above them but only half-full, waxing while the stars looked on.

“Is this the special thing?” Alfred asked, then felt guilty for sounding ungrateful.

Kiku’s eyes were closed. He didn’t say a word.

Alfred waited as long as he could bear before he said, “You know, I thought you were a snobby uptight guy but I guess that was just a show, huh?”

“I don’t enjoy being the person Yao makes me into,” Kiku replied evenly, “but I prefer myself in this role than someone more cruel.”

“Well, yeah,” Alfred said, shifting his weight a bit to relieve the pressure on things that disliked being pressed against roofs. “If you were someone else I would just be an animal right now. So . . . thanks.”

Kiku glanced at him. “You’re really grateful?”

“Yeah.” Alfred didn’t smile, but his face didn’t feel so hard. “I am.”

“Are you still angry?”

He could still feel the chain around his neck and the scar on his thigh but he shook his head. “Not as much as I was.” He breathed in a deep breath of cool night air. “It’s hard to be angry up here.”

Now Kiku smiled. “Yes, it is.” He tipped his head back, breathing deeply as well.

Alfred looked up at the peaceful night sky. Beautiful, despite the hatred it saw so often below. Alfred took one last steadying breath and asked the question he’d wanted to ask his brother so many times but, for whatever reason, never did. Pride? Avoidance of a potential argument? Nothing worth it, that much was certain. If they didn’t die before all this was over, he wouldn’t take talking to his brother for granted.

“What’s it like,” he asked, “to fly?”

It took long enough that Alfred thought it might never come, but eventually the response made its way out: “It makes you wonder why anyone would ever want to be on the ground.”

That was the most honest and wonderful thing Alfred had heard in a good while, and it was precisely how he felt when he was running full-throttle, grass hissing below him and the breeze calling his name. “Why not fly right now?” A slight shrug. “You can be free for both of us.”

It was a bittersweet light in Kiku’s dark eyes, but he stood, arms outstretched, and with a smooth spiraled ripple down his body he was a little egret. Pure white, with elegant black legs and beak and a crest curling from the back of his head. He took off, sailing through the air with his long neck tucked close to his body, and in the moonlight he was like an apparition, a spirit cast down from the moon and stars.

Alfred watched, almost breathless, as Kiku cut through the air like a blade and finally came back to land neatly in front of him. He stood still even when Alfred reached a hand toward him, and he trusted that hand as it touched the top of his little head, his smooth neck, the silky soft feathers of his chest. Alfred couldn’t remember the last time he touched a bird. It was a matter of courtesy not to touch someone when they were in a different form than you; loved ones, family and friends, were the obvious exception to that rule. Birds were so delicate with their feathers and hollow bones and just general small stature. Alfred felt instinctively protective, being in a position to touch Kiku like this. _So soft._

Then the general shifted back to human form and Alfred was taken by his skin, his eyes, his raven hair. The word came right out, totally bypassing his brain: “You’re . . .” But now he trailed off. _Beautiful_ sounded wrong, flirtatious, when what he really wanted to tell Kiku was that he was _more,_ that he was “. . . magnificent.”

At that, Kiku actually ducked his head, sheepish, but Alfred saw his smile.

Then the breeze swirled around them, abruptly cold enough that they shivered, and Kiku said, “We should go back in now.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Alfred agreed, his father’s words on his tongue.

“There,” Kiku said with amusement, “you have wisdom, too.”

Alfred glanced up at the sky, from which he hoped his mother could see him. “I’m working on it.”

 

. . .

 

One of Francis’s favorite sights was Antonio in various states of undress, but tonight as they readied themselves for bed the retired king stood at the large west-facing window of the grand bedchamber. It was a large window, big enough to let in the gorgeous pinks and oranges of sunset and, currently, the pale silver of moonlight. Francis couldn’t look at this window without remembering the sight of his previous mate—his queen—standing there, ghostly in the weak light, looking out at the night sky. Francis despised the memory, but he always saw it through to the end: how he woke half-hard and expectant of relief from his chosen Omega, how he demanded and how he punished when he was refused. The mother of his child, and that was how Francis had thanked him.

It was this tangle of feelings and memories he couldn’t help but think of, too, when he looked at Alfred. His Alpha son had been conceived because, at that time, he had needed an heir for the throne. Now Omegas were free to be leaders and Matthew had taken his place; Alfred was, in that sense, purposeless. The pain his mother had gone through was for naught. Francis could not say he regretted his own child, but the circumstance that had created him . . .

Francis stared up at the moon. Unlike when he was young, it no longer brought yearning to run and howl. Perhaps he was losing the wild song inside him, in his old age. He remembered, with an even sharper pain in his chest, two wolves bounding beneath the full moon, gold and silver. The lost friend, the traitor. There were so many things he’d kept from Matthew, from Alfred, from Antonio. He wondered, for the first time, what secrets his own father must have kept from him—and, for that matter, the secrets his children _must_ have had. Would they ever trust him enough to divulge? Or were they keeping them to protect him, just as he tried his hardest to do to them?

“Francis.” Antonio stepped behind him, wrapping warm arms around his waist. His lips brushed Francis’s neck, a hint of rough stubble on his chin. “Are you alright?”

Francis nodded, turning his head to kiss a bronze temple. “Oui. Just thinking.”

“Sometimes you do that too much,” Antonio told him, but it was a gentle, fond statement he’d made several times before. “I know I’m not your advisor anymore, but you can still tell me what you’re worried about. Anytime.”

“I know,” Francis replied, caressing Antonio’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Thank you. I’m just thinking about Mathieu and Alfred, that’s all. It’s been—”

“A few weeks,” Antonio finished for him, green gaze reassuring in the one eye he still had. “They could be on their way home right now. Or a letter could be on its way. If it’s not very important news, they may not send a messenger.”

All of these were thoughts Francis had had himself, multiple times, but hearing them in the Spanish Alpha’s familiar rasp always made ideas feel far more grounded and validated. That was one secret he hadn’t kept from Matthew: _Don’t be afraid to doubt yourself, mon prince. Everyone does, even kings. A good leader is someone wise enough to surround himself with people even wiser than he is._

“That’s true,” Francis agreed. “Don’t worry about me, Toni.”

Antonio knew, by now, when it was best to stop talking about something. He gave a light squeeze to Francis’s shoulder and stepped away, tugging down his trousers as he did. Francis enjoyed that view for a moment, then turned to look back out the window at the twinkling stars. Most people believed there was a heaven up there, a hunting ground for wolves and endless skies for birds. His faith was shaky at best, but now he hoped it was true. _I hope you’re watching over them, Arthur,_ he thought. As always, he waited for any response, and, as always, he got nothing. Francis sighed, turning his back on the stars.

Suddenly the wind picked up, out of nowhere. It threw Francis’s cape up over his head, blinding him, and slammed the window shut just shy of cracking the glass.

Antonio swore under his breath. “I didn’t think the wind was blowing.”

Francis pushed his cape back down. Gooseflesh prickled over his body. “It isn’t,” he said uneasily. He’d never experienced such a potent sense of dread. This couldn’t compare to the anxiety he once faced when he had to appear in front of his kingdom. This was baseless, senseless apprehension. He had to stifle a comfort-seeking whine.

Antonio stepped over again, smoothing his hair and tucking a wavy strand behind his ear. “Come to bed, mi vida.”

Francis put on a smile and nodded.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we're back to one chapter per brother. Next time there should be some Alfred and some Matthew. What's consistency, again?

“I have spent hours upon hours—

more than my fair share, perhaps—

thinking about death. Not my own, but

those of others around me. I think the thought

of heaven is only a comfort to us, the living.

How miserable our lost loved ones must be:

gazing down from above, watching us make

the same mistakes, time after time . . .”

_—from the private diary of Francis Bonnefoy_

 

Vladimir led them into thicker forest, humming an unrecognizable tune all the while. Matthew’s eyes had been dominated by green, but now his whole world was emerald. Vladimir negotiated the thick vines and ferns with familiar grace, but Matthew relied on the white wolf to carve a path for him. He pushed aside thicker clumps of bracken and climbed up onto fallen trees hidden among the undergrowth so Matthew wouldn’t trip over them. The fog was still in full effect, clinging coolly to Matthew’s face and the back of his neck. He was relieved they were here in the middle of the day; if he had to make his way through this terrain at night, he worried his mind would conjure the same imaginary ghouls he once thought lurked beneath his bed and behind clothing in his closet.

 _See, there’s nothing there._ Matthew jolted at the sudden memory. Who’d said that? Not his father. Antonio, maybe? Who else would have been in his bedroom, tucking him in, wishing him sweet dreams?

A peculiar clicking sound distracted him. Vladimir didn’t react to it, but Matthew noted a shift in the gait of the white wolf. Matthew watched him closely until he was sure: the clicks came when his paws touched down. Matthew stopped walking, knelt to touch the ground through the grasses and fog. His feet were so exhausted and sore he hadn’t felt the change through his boots, but his fingertips knew: this was not earth, but stone. The white wolf sniffed at his fingers, then scratched the stone. It was so old, his claws left shallow marks scored over the tiles.

“Where are we?” Matthew asked, softer than he’d intended.

Vladimir smiled over his shoulder. “It had a name once, but it’s lost to time, I’m afraid.” He turned, lifting a hand to gesture. “See for yourself, child.”

The avuncular tone to this made Matthew wonder if this Omega was much older than he seemed—his skin wasn’t very wrinkled, but his eyes and voice were so lived-in—but Matthew was swiftly distracted from this by a bigger wonder. He joined Vladimir at the top of a small slope and gazed down upon the ruins of a temple. It rose from the fog like an ancient creature woken from rest, stone crumbling and everything covered in moss, bracken, sun-searching saplings. Piles of stone tiles and bits of broken wall had been piled on either side of the path they stood on; Matthew wondered if this had been done by whomever lived here now, or those who had once maintained this place. He wondered, too, who had built this temple here and who it was intended to serve so far from everything and hidden in this misty valley. It must have been forgotten by most, otherwise there would be wolf guards, traders, any outward sign of human activity. Matthew wondered if there were any places like this left in the West, or if they had walked every stretch of forest and found every bit of beauty their land had to offer. With a pang of sadness, Matthew knew his home lacked the wildness of this place. It may have had it once, but they had abandoned it. He couldn’t complain—if not for his guardian, he would not be alive right now in this unforgiving wilderness—but, at the same time, it was a shame.

“It was once three levels high,” Vladimir said, leading the way down, “but as you can see, the top two have collapsed. The underground chambers have been protected. That is where we live.”

“We?” Matthew echoed, reaching to give the white wolf’s head a comforting touch when he began to growl suspiciously.

“A dozen or so,” Vladimir replied, unperturbed. “All of us are just wanderers, not fighters. Don’t worry,” he added with a glance at the white wolf, “you will be the strongest one among us.” A thoughtful pause. “Physically, that is.”

Matthew gave the wolf a pleading look. He grumbled, but followed Vladimir down to the temple and stepped cautiously past the curtain of lichen the Omega held aside. Inside was surprisingly warm, despite the lack of any heat sources in sight. The only source of light were the multitude of cracks and partially overgrown openings, but Vladimir led them with surety to another staircase that brought them into the earth. Matthew felt a hint of paranoia—if the upper storeys had collapsed, after all, it was only a matter of time before the lower ones followed suit—but it was overwhelmed by curiosity and, perhaps more so, thirst, hunger, and the innate relief of having a roof over his head.

Here a narrow corridor was lit by a single torch. They ventured past three dark doorways (the white wolf rumbled at each of them) before Vladimir turned and gestured to one emitting a warm, flickering gold. “Here we are. You could call this our common area, if you like.”

Matthew peered shyly around the wall. Evidently the temple was far larger below than it was above, because this room was larger than the entirety of what the trio had just traversed to reach the staircase. The ceiling  was quite high, enabled by the floor being five steps lower than the level of the hallway that led to it. Grand pillars, three on the left and three on the right, held up this soaring ceiling and were carved with fantastical things Matthew had never even heard of let alone seen realized: fire-breathing snakes, spotted cats with many tails, sharp-horned horses, mismatched beasts with three different heads. There were low stone seats scattered about the chamber and these, too, were carved with grinning dragon heads on either end. Most of these had been dragged over to a communal area in the center of the room, where several people—a dozen or so, yes—were sitting and talking around a fire contained by an intricate iron pit. The talking wasn’t happening in English, but even if it was Matthew wouldn’t have taken any of it in because each of these people had a bowl of soup in their hands.

Vladimir patted the shoulder of his uninjured arm and said, “Boris, pour our hungry guests some dinner, please.”

A rather plain-looking Omega (though, to be fair to him, anyone would look plain compared to Vladimir’s eyes and teeth) glanced up first, followed by the rest of the people around the fire. Most were middle-aged, a few were young, and one was old enough that Matthew wondered how he looked so comfortable on the stone seat when Francis—who was only in his forties, for the record—had recently replaced the chairs at the long dining table because they weren’t padded enough.

Matthew smiled, lifted a hand for a little wave. “Um, hi.” He’d spent so long talking to a wolf he’d forgotten what it was like to address someone who could interrupt him at any time. Guided by Vladimir, he edged politely past a few people before sitting down. The white wolf lay down at his feet, eyeing their fireside companions warily.

Boris offered Matthew a clay bowl and a friendly smile. “The meat is water deer.”

He’d never heard of those, but now was not the time for fussy eating. “Thank you.” He accepted the bowl and lifted a spoonful to his lips, blowing briefly until he lost his patience and slurped it up. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. He should’ve been more mannerly about it, as a royal, but he didn’t care about that either. Berries or no berries, he’d been starving to death. Now he relished every drop in the bowl.

When he looked up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the others were watching him with amusement, Vladimir most of all. “Another bowl?”

Matthew handed the bowl back to Boris. “Yes. Please. Thank you.”

While he ladled more soup from the pot hanging above the fire pit, the elderly Omega spoke up. She was one of the few here with the telltale dark eyes of the east, and when she spoke it was in an unknown language but a lovely, rich rasp of a voice. Her phrase lifted at the end in the manner of a question, and her small, wrinkled hand indicated the white wolf. His ears lowered a little.

“She asked if your friend would like something to eat,” Vladimir told him, squeezing on next to Boris who absently slipped an arm around his waist as if to prevent him from falling. This casual closeness alone warmed Matthew to them; these people in random forest ruins accepted same-sex pairs, but the west still had trouble with it? Perhaps that was another consequence of the wildness. There was no time to worry about such petty differences when survival was not always a guarantee. And besides, this was the east. The equality scale was tipped largely in favor of Omegas—this was all Matthew knew, as the few meetings his father and the Jarls had had with Yao happened on their land, never his own—and here Omegas marrying Omegas was the norm.

Matthew glanced down at the wolf, who had begun to pant now, saliva wetting the fur around his lips. Matthew smiled at Vladimir, then the elder. “If you don’t mind, could he have some meat or something? He can’t shift right now. He’s sort of stuck.”

Vladimir translated this, and the elder Omega nodded, a thoughtful glint in her eye. She said something to an Alpha seated next to her and he immediately strode out and quickly returned with a bloody, half-butchered deer leg in hand. The white wolf sat up, staring at this with intense crimson eyes. The elder nodded, and the Alpha dropped the leg. The wolf pounced on it and tore into the meat with loud snuffles and pleasured growls. With this unruly racket, Matthew didn’t feel so bad about his slurping.

“We haven’t had a traveller in a while,” Vladimir said, after they’d eaten their fill and those who wished to linger settled in to listen to the half of the conversation they could understand. “But I have seen your friend before, once or twice. I wasn’t quite sure if he was actually there or not, but I see now that he’s real.”

Matthew blinked, unsure if this was a language barrier issue. “What do you mean?”

Now Vladimir said something to the elder. Their exchange was slow, contemplative. As they went back and forth, the others sitting nearby gave the white wolf fascinated glances and began whispering to each other. He sat up, ears flicking back, but Matthew’s gentle _shhh_ soothed him. Matthew didn’t want them getting kicked out of this place so soon. In truth, now that he had people he could get verbal confirmation from, he was paranoid the trapped Alpha might not actually know how to reach Yao’s palace. _He got us here, though,_ Matthew thought, uncertainty flip-flopping in his mind.

He realized the elder Omega was watching him with a fond smile on her face. He returned the smile lightly, thankful for the support but bewildered at its origin, until Vladimir said, “She would like to show you both something. Do you trust us?”

“Yes,” Matthew replied promptly. Again, he was no no position to oppose them.

The four of them—Vladimir, the elder, Matthew, the white wolf—stood and made their way deeper down into the temple. Vladimir lighted another torch to guide them, though with him standing at the back of the group and the elder at the front, Matthew got the eerie sense that she could make sense of the shadows without need for the flame. They walked slowly down two more staircases, this time in a sort of spiral with a wall to one side and disconcerting, yawning black to the other. When they reached the bottom, Matthew realized the staircase overlooked this large chamber—twice the height of the common area—they now stood in.

“This temple was for worship once,” Vladimir said, translating the low murmurs of the elder, “but today the old beliefs have been left behind by most people. It’s hard to say how long this has been here.”

They stepped close to the walls, walking slowly along, Vladimir holding the torch close so Matthew could see. The walls had been carved and painted to depict great forests and towns and mountains. There were so many tiny details: people trading in an open market, sailors hauling fishnets on a dock, pups playing in the streets. It was far from the realism of the oil paintings Francis paid so much gold for, but Matthew was taken by the warmth and life within the drawings. Then, just as he was silently admiring the domesticity of it, the art shifted. The forests were dark, the buildings were damaged, and two massive mountains rose up as if to stab the sky. On top of them perched two impossible creatures. On the eastern mountain, a great black bird with a curved beak full of fangs. And on the western mountain, a pure white wolf with wings spreading from his mighty shoulders.

“Anima,” said Vladimir, reverent fingertips hovering over the black feathers, “and Animus. Mother and father. Omega and Alpha.”

Matthew glanced down at the white wolf, who was staring up at the winged Alpha god, hackles prickling. Matthew felt the same way; the hair on the back of his own neck was standing up. They continued to walk, gazing at the paintings of both gods lifting up into the air, circling and twining with each other. Dark clouds surrounded them, cut by jagged lightning. Talons and fangs, wings beating each other as the two vied for a death grip. Then they were shown curled together in the sky, the moon turning Animus silver while the sun made Anima black as coal. They fit together, wings wrapped round each other, black and white, with the perfection only art could lend to seemingly incongruous shapes. Equal. Then, below, the forests and fields were filled with wolves and birds. And beyond that, the circular room had run out and they were back to the peaceful cityscape.

“A circle,” Matthew whispered.

“A cycle,” Vladimir corrected gently.

Matthew nodded, looking again at the image of the gods facing each other on their mountains. “They’re sort of . . .” He was lost for words in the face of all this. “. . . combined.”

“Yes, they’re made of each other,” Vladimir agreed. “Alphas and Omegas need each other to create life, after all.” He gave a rather sad smile. “Have you fled the west?”

Matthew realized these people had no idea what had been happening in the world for the past decade, if not longer than that. How would Arthur feel to know that his cause was unknown in  a place far away, yes, but getting closer all the time. “No, the west has changed. We practise equality now. Omegas have the same rights as Alphas.”

Vladimir appeared a tad dubious, but impressed. “Well, that’s good news. But I have to ask, why did you leave, then?”

If these people were so far removed from mainstream society, they wouldn’t care about his involvement in politics. “I was summoned to meet with the emperor, but I was attacked before I could get there.” He gestured to his slinged arm. “We came here for food and maybe shelter, so I thank you for giving us those things.”

Sympathy came into the other Omega’s eyes, and he turned to the elder. After a more eager exchange than the last, Vladimir smiled. “We can give you more help than that. We can free you and your friend of your trappings.”

 _Free us?_ “How?”

Translating again, Vladimir replied, “The ancient methods. All wounds are, at their core, wounds of the spirit.”

Matthew did his best to hide his skepticism. This sounded like the old Omegas who claimed they could see into the future or converse with the dead and stole money from those blinded by fear or grief. Though Matthew never found out for sure, he was fairly certain Alfred had given a ridiculous amount of gold pieces to a so-called necromancer in exchange for reaching out to his mother. An unsuccessful endeavor, obviously.

Still, Matthew figured a bit of a blessing from an elder was harmless. What did they have to lose? So, after a glance at the wolf (who seemed to have been quieted by the images on the walls), he nodded. “Okay. We’ll give it a try.”

He expected to head back up the spiral staircase, but it turned out the elder wished to perform the ritual right here. Boris and a few others came down to assist her in tracing intricate symbols over the floor with a chalky substance as well as setting up little beds of sweet grass for Matthew and the wolf. In a bowl, a bundle of herbs burned between the two beds, giving off a peculiar but not unpleasant scent. The elder circled the room slowly while everything was put together, speaking in her language, eyes closed. Vladimir knelt between Matthew and the wolf, drawing a circle onto the floor and coloring in one half. He did it twice, mirroring them so the un-filled half was facing both Matthew and the wolf. Vladimir smiled down at him. “Don’t fret. All you need to do is sleep.”

Matthew wasn’t sure about that, but they hadn’t ingested anything so they weren’t poisoned. _What’s the harm in a nap?_ He was lulled, both by the gentle sweet grass and the rise and fall of the elder’s voice. He saw the white wolf’s eyes drift shut. If he could sleep, Matthew could too. He closed his eyes and let himself fall.

And then he was standing in the birch grove. It was immediately recognizable, even though he’d never been here at night. The trees glowed silver, the flowers dark violet blotches over the ground. He looked for the grave, but it was nowhere to be seen. He turned around, and froze.

Perched on a branch of the largest tree, a raptor bird watched him. Brown and tawny speckled. Perhaps this was the elder? Shyly, Matthew said, “Uh, hello.”

The bird only stared at him.

Matthew fiddled with his fingers. His arm was not hurt, but of course not; this was a dream. “Is there something I’m supposed to do?”

The bird, a harrier, spread its wings and lifted off, flapping upward. Without a thought, Matthew shifted and flew after it. This was the easiest flying he’d ever done, a warm breeze buoying them upward toward the stars. They flew high above the city. Was this home? It didn’t really have details for him to focus on, but it felt like home, especially up here, free, powerful.

The larger bird could have easily outpaced him but it never left him behind. As Matthew watched the streets below became grass became forest and at last blue, nothing but vast open water. They alighted on a cliff edge high above the water, but the sea spray was warm and sweet rather than cold and salty. Matthew looked out over the sea—the north was out there, but he’d never travelled there by himself, had never gone beyond his home until now—then turned and his breath was stolen away.

Where once perched the harrier now stood his mother, unmistakable with his green eyes and freckled nose and sandy hair. Matthew had seen several portraits of him but none could capture the truth of him Matthew now saw. He shifted shakily and, from his timid crouch on the ground, asked breathlessly, “Arthur?”

Arthur said nothing, only offered a hand to him. Matthew took it, let Arthur help him to his feet. There was no real weight to it, but even seeing their hands together was worth it just for the image. He hoped he would remember how that looked, holding his mother’s hand.

“Is this really happening?” Matthew whispered.

Arthur only gave him a faint smile before he glanced out over the sea again. Matthew stared at his profile, so similar to Alfred’s and yet different still, a softer nose, a calmer set to his brow. None of Alfred’s restless anger with the world. But then, perhaps Arthur had once possessed that, when he was younger. When he was alive.

Now Matthew gathered the courage to ask: “Am I dead?”

Arthur looked at him in alarm, then his brow furrowed and he shook his head, almost scoldingly.

That was a relief, anyway. “Okay. Where are we?”

A slight shrug from thinner shoulders than Matthew’s.

Matthew gave him a sidelong look. “Are you going to say anything at all?”

Arthur raised one eyebrow slightly, and Matthew sighed a little. This probably made sense. He couldn’t really remember what his mother’s voice sounded like, so why would he be able to talk in his dream? But if this wasn’t really a dream—impossible, but _if_ —he needed to know.

“Okay,” he said, “I just . . . tell me this at least, please. Is Alfred still alive?”

At last, Arthur’s sharp green gaze softened just as night gave over to dawn. Smiling tenderly in the warming pink light, he nodded.

Matthew shivered a little as relief eased through him. “I hope this is actually real. I know it’s impossible, but . . . I hope you can see me.” He lowered his head, sighing sadly as the reality hit that this would most likely be the last time he would ever see Arthur. He’d never had a dream this vivid before, and he never would again. There was simply no way. Even now, before it was over, he felt sorrow stirring in his chest. He had no been able to say goodbye to Arthur before he did. Now he had to. _I don’t want to go._

Something touched his chin. Arthur’s fingertips, gently lifting his head. Arthur smiled, the same affectionate look Francis had given him countless times, pride and bottomless love.

Matthew had never cried in a dream, but he felt tears on his cheeks. “I miss you.”

Arthur nodded, just a single bow of his head. There was a silent apology in the way he stepped back, eyes closing for a moment, awash with guilt or remorse. Then he shifted and lifted back up into the sky, flying toward the rising sun, the amber sky, the glittering expanse of the sea. Matthew watched him go until something flickered close before his eyes; he reached up instinctively and plucked from the air a brown speckled feather. Soft, so soft. When he glanced back up, the harrier was gone and the sun was bright, bright enough that Matthew had to lift his free hand and shield his eyes, blindingly bright, so bright it was black. . . .

Then he was awake, in the chamber in the ruins, the torch, the herbs with only a faint trail of smoke now. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he was sitting up—with his weight on both arms. His make-do sling had come loose from the movement, and when he straightened it, twisted it, flexed his lackluster bicep there was no pain or even discomfort. _Impossible._ Yet there it was.

Even more unbelievable, his hand was still clenched into a fist that, when he opened it, he saw held the very same feather he had caught in the dream. _Dream?_ It was not one of his own; far too large, far too patterned.

And, most impossible of all, the white wolf lying beside him was no longer a wolf. The Alpha was a man in old, rather faded military clothes, breathing hard, crimson eyes wide and staring at Matthew, and this face was familiar in the same way Arthur’s was: from long, long ago. A face that was once such a fact of his life he could not believe he’d spent so long forgetting.

“Gilbert,” Matthew said, his voice surprisingly large in this silent, hollow chamber. “That’s who you are.”

With that, any hint of the feral wolf still lingering in Gilbert’s eyes was tamed. His heaving chest went still, then more calmly drew breaths in and out. Rather clumsy on two legs rather than four, he stood up so he could offer a hand to help Matthew up. This was very different from in his dream; he felt the weight of himself and the strength in Gilbert’s arm as he lifted him up. Then, as soon as Matthew had found his full height, Gilbert was down on one knee, head bowed, the pose of a royal guardsman swearing loyalty and offering his life.

A little hesitant—unused to addressing guards with this much authority, especially ones twice his age—Matthew said, “At ease.”

Gilbert rose up, half a head taller than him, and in a very gravelly voice, closer to the growl of a wolf than the timbre of a man, he said, “It’s an honor to officially meet you again, Your Majesty.”


End file.
